Box Returned with Love

It is said there are angels who descend to raise us to where we wish to be after we die. It may also be said there are angels in human appearance who raise us to where we wish to be while we live.
At 6:30, Anne stood alone beside the road waiting to board the bus that would deliver her to where she toiled. Many adults who gave her notice at this hour gave her sympathy as well, seeing the wear and fade of her clothing, her thin face, and her sunken cheek.
Away from work, having an income barely outlasting her outlays for needs and being not the visiting type, though friendly, Anne’s time was given to plants, tidying and looking through the front window at the children who played and those who aspired to play in the field across the road.
Every December approaching Christmas, Anne, claiming extreme fatigue brought on by work, rather than attend to all usual errands by herself, would hire a substitute for some.
The boy or girl was always well rewarded. This need of help, however, was a deception, one used for decades but never revealed.
One Dec. 24, in waning health, Anne answered a soft tapping at the front door to see a young girl. “May I see Anne if Anne lives here?” she inquired. “Yes you may, I am Anne.”
Receiving the sought-after reply, the girl handed over a package and a letter, mentioning while doing so, “My dad, before he died, asked me to bring these to you.”
Becoming suddenly upset, she turned and ran back to the car that had brought her. Setting down the package on a chair, Anne extracted the letter from its envelope.
It read: “For a time I lived with my aunt near you. One day, as I was going past your house, you came over to me, curious to know my name. Hearing, ‘Thomas’ you smiled, saying, ‘Thomas is a name I like very much. If ever I have a son I will name him after you.’ Then, pointing to a little dog at your side, you said, ‘Barksy  needs a walk, would you take him for one?’ When I brought him back, before sending me on my way, you took my hand and placed in it a box of candy, saying as you did, ‘Thomas please accept this. It’s my way of sharing Christmas with you.'”
The letter, ended, was put aside. Pulling apart the package, from inside Anne withdrew a cardboard container. Removing its lid revealed a note that unfolded bore these words. “I’m returning the box you once gave me. Please don’t think it is empty or plain. In the space where there had been candy, I’ve filled with appreciations and wishes for you.
“In place of silver wrapping I’ve applied layers of holdings, glances, and gazes. And on that spot once adorned by a crimson bow, I have laid a picture of you that has been in my heart’s album since that Christmastime when I was lonely poor, and you were angel kind.”
Lewis writes from Corbin City.