Sister of Silence by Daleen Berry Read Free Book Online Page B

had with dancing, I begged for lessons, but there was never enough money.
    So instead, I went outside to play, or stayed inside and read. After school, I would jump off the bus, eager to explore on my way home. Mom always waited for us at the bus stop. Then she and Carla walked home while I dawdled behind. I walked down the narrow country lane on my own. It was a short walk, made longer by the presence of a general store and post office in a gray-shingled building. Inside, I bought pieces of nickel candy from Mr. Engle, the elderly shop owner who shuffled slowly around, helping me remove the lids from the candy jars that sat atop glass display cabinets. He also sold ice cream and all kinds of household and garden items in the comfortable but dusty old shop, and I would slowly wander around savoring my sweets as I peered closely at everything there.
    Mr. E ngle’s son worked in the post office next door. Jim was the postmaster and he sorted mail in a room barely big enough to turn around in, but which had the most lovely, little brass boxes from floor to ceiling. There was row upon row of them, except where a small window opened in the center. That was where customers bought stamps or leaned over the narrow ledge, eager to share neighborhood news.
    Each brass box had its own small window, and an even smaller brass knob with a pointer that turned around a numbered dial to unlock the boxes. I loved turning the little knob and opening its tiny, hinged door, to find someone had sent me a letter of my very own.
    I would practically run off the bus every day, stopping long enough to buy something from the store if I had money, or go into the post office in case my mother had left mail in the box for me. Jim would always come out whenever any of the neighborhood children came in, smiling kindly and asking how our day had been, or what we were learning in school. I enjoyed talking to him for a few minutes, before skipping happily down the road.
    “Well Miss Daleen, how are you today?” Jim asked.
    “I’m fine, but I don’t see any mail in my box.” I was disappointed.
    Jim grinned. “Then you’ll be happy to know that’s because it’s too big to fit into the box.” He turned and picked up a big bundle and opened the small door between his work area and the customer service area.
    “I think this is yours,” he said, handing it to me.
    “It’s my weekly delivery of Grit newspapers!” I practically danced out of the building, yelling as I went. “Thank you, Jim!”
    The papers were too heavy to dally, but on other days I would stop to gaze at the jewelweed that grew alongside the road. I called the bright specks of orange hidden among the tall bushes touch-me-nots. My hand would be poised to touch one of the elongated pods that hung on the same stem as the small, delicate flowers when it would suddenly pop without warning, exposing a tiny curled green vine and a few white seeds. One of the things I really enjoyed during late spring and early summer was to try to pop as many of the little pods as I could. Sometimes, I would pluck them very carefully from their stems, place them in my open palm, and make a game out of trying to reach home with the buds still intact, because even stepping too hard could cause them to pop. Then I would sit down and with barely a touch, I would watch the remaining ones burst open, revealing the amazing coiled green tendrils inside.
    From the general store to my home, it was a short walk down a small hill and past the touch-me-nots, over three sets of railroad tracks, and across a bridge under which ran a small creek. Each day was an adventure, and I often stopped just to watch a groundhog or a rabbit run by.
    Our home sat at the end of the bridge. Sometimes in summer, I would stand and look over the railing to the water far below, dreaming about how nice it would be to take off my socks and shoes and climb over the rocks. I knew they would feel good, because for several years while growing