M’aidez

Dearest Rachel –

I’ve been told that the distress code “mayday” comes from an anglicization of the French expression “m’aidez,” literally “help me.” Well, once again, May Day is upon us, and I could use some help.

You see, while some events – like the balloon that wound up on the driveway on my birthday last year – are most likely one-off coincidences, it would seem that others might well be on their way to becoming annual traditions. The trouble is, I have no idea whose tradition it might be, and I wish I knew, if only so I could thank them. All I’m able to do is to tell you about it.

You’re probably wondering what I might be rabbiting on about; or, maybe you’ve been watching the house this whole time and know exactly what I’m talking about (indeed, you might even know the ‘who’ that I don’t). I’m sure you remember the fact that we received a mysterious delivery of flowers last year on this same day. Even now, I’ve no idea who might have come by to drop it off; the only suspect I might have guess has denied it, and she’s rather a poor liar on the whole, so I’ve no choice but to believe her. I may ask again next I see her – it’s possible I’ve misjudged her ability for mild deception.

In any event, it’s happened yet again.

It seems to be done in a very different handwriting, to be honest. Or maybe, it’s someone younger than I think, who has just learned cursive. But if it was a school assignment, a delivery on a Sunday wouldn’t make sense. So I’m just puzzled.
The flowers are very different to; while there is a tulip that has yet to bloom, I don’t recognize the other two blossoms. Oh, and if you’re wondering about that glass, it’s one the builders found deep in one of the cabinets that they tore out and disposed of: evidently I missed it in my attempts to empty the kitchen. I have been assured that this is common to the point of almost being universal, that the homeowner misses something in the process of clearing the room, so I shouldn’t feel too bad about it.

It’s starting to feel like that one mysterious fellow who was said to visit the Baltimore cemetery where Edgar Allan Poe had been buried every year on the anniversary of the poet’s birth. After toasting Poe’s memory with a glass of cognac (perhaps amontillado is not available in Baltimore?), the mysterious visitor would leave the rest of the bottle behind, along with three roses, presumably representing Poe, his wife, and his mother-in-law/aunt, who had all been buried there. No one ever found out definitively who it was, although near the end of his visits (in the early 2000s, after over 70 years of the tradition), there would be spectators to his visits, but it was tacitly agreed that he should not be disturbed in the performance of his ritual.

And maybe that’s how things need to be. I remain painfully curious as to the who and why of this gift yet again, and all the same, it would appear that our visitor is determined to accomplish this task anonymously. With that in mind, then, perhaps it would be best that I not overexert myself in making inquiries. Perhaps some day, when we are given all the answers at the end of days, I will discover the truth, but until then, a secret it shall remain, unless you have a way to inform me. And honestly, if you did, there are other things I’d want to hear from you first before the identity of our May Day benefactor.

Until later, honey, keep an eye out for us.

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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