Florence's Final Journey22

any longer. She had once had a skipping little daughter that squeezed
her hand in their daily walks, this childless widow.
She had hobbled down to the bakery, taking in and relishing the
sounds, smells and action of the neighborhood. She had picked out two
hard-bound books from the bakery's free library for her impending train
trip and quietly stuffed a twenty dollar bill in the donation box slot. She
had packed one bag before her watering session and given her already
tidy house a thorough cleaning. She carefully pinned a note on her
grandmother's old, colorful quilt bed cover and left another for Carl that
she hung from her mailbox.
Florence put on her elegant out-of-style tweet outfit and an old hat
that would have been admired by most years ago. She dabbed on some
light makeup and rubbed her arms and hands with lotion before putting
on her white dress gloves that she hadn't worn in many years. She
checked her purse again for the train tickets, recounted her money for
the third time and called a cab. She poured herself some red wine-a rare
treat-in a paper cup, grabbed her cane and bag and ambled outside to
wait on her old porch swing. She sipped the wine, rocked and enjoyed the
feeling of excitement she felt. Traveling had always been her favorite
thing in this world and she had done more than her share of it, especially
as a young, hopeful woman.
She had flown to Hawaii, Australia, New Zealand, several spots in
Mexico and Europe where she feel in love with train travel. She loved the
Canadian railroad and was heading for her favorite spot in North
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