It's been a warm fall, but the absence of our regular wood peddlers has been notable. The last time we saw Lisa, she was rolling an oxygen tank behind her. As always, I'm sure she rang the doorbell and stepped respectfully back from the stoop. "I see y'all need a fill-up," she might have said, gesturing to our wood rack.
I probably agreed, or more likely, Heidi did because she's usually the one to answer the door, but I'm sure I paid Lisa when she and her cousin were finished stacking the firewood they had hauled from their truck.
"That should take you through to next year," I'm pretty sure she promised.
And I know I nodded agreeably. "Thank you," I answered. "Take care," I hope I added as I handed over the cash we always kept on hand for these transactions. "See you in the fall."
When the doorbell rang this morning, I knew it had to be her. It was December 1, 38 degrees, and our wood rack was getting low. From the kitchen, I could hear more conversation than usual when Heidi answered the door, and through the window, I saw Lisa's cousin. I went around to the front door.
"How much do we usually pay to fill the rack?" Heidi asked me. In a quieter voice, she added, "Lisa died this summer, and she wants to make sure she charges us the right amount."
"I'm so sorry," I said to the woman at the door. "We have always really appreciated the excellent service you have given us."
"Thank you," she nodded. "Lisa always wanted to make sure we took care of you. She always said, 'We gotta stop by the girls' house to see if they need anything.' I don't know what you paid, but I want to keep it the same out of respect to her."
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