Mary Jane sat in the driveway in her old, creaky rocking chair with her spiral bound notebook at 12:45 every day without fail. Arthur noticed even if it was raining or unbearably hot, she moved back to the front porch. Freezing cold? She put on a sweater. And every day at 12:45, without fail, Arthur walked past her house with his hands stuffed in his pockets and asked her the same question.

"Whatcha writin', Mary Jane?" He always asked in his southern drawl, the common tone of voice for Mississippi folks.

And, with a small smile that made the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes become even more prominent, she always replied, "I don't know yet."

One hot July afternoon, when the air was thick with the sweetest sweet tea and sweaty-faced kids riding in circles on their bicycles, Arthur continued his daily ritual. "Whatcha writin', Mary Jane?"

Then there was the smile again, the slightest twitch of the lips that made him unconsciously mirror her movements, but this time her response was different. "I'm writing a letter to a special man."

Arthur's eyebrows raised a little. "Oh? And who would this lucky fella be?"

"I don't know yet," she said, voice rich with laughter. Though her hair was white, her skin wrinkled, the stars in her eyes proved that her soul was still young. "But when I find him I'll let you know."

Arthur wished her luck in her search for this special someone and walked across the street to his own one-level house, grunting slightly as he dragged his stiff legs up the creaky porch steps that harmonized with Mary Jane's rocking chair. He mumbled the usual, "Getting too old for this . . ." then made his way to the kitchen to get started on the apple pie.

Though he may have been retired for some time now, Arthur never really gave up on baking. He supposed it was just one of those things that stayed in your soul, even after flipping the sign on the door to "closed" for the last time. And Sunday afternoon, two on the dot, his daughter Nancy let herself inside with the spare key he kept in the hollowed out garden gnome in the garden.

"Somethin' smells absolutely delectable, Pa." Nancy grinned at her father and kissed him on the cheek before dipping into the apple filling and sucking the sticky substance off her finger.

Arthur gave her the same disapproving look he did every Sunday afternoon, but didn't say anything more than, "Hello, Nancy," and went back to rolling out the homemade crust.

"Did ya see Mary Jane?" Hopping up on the counter, she swung her legs back and forth as she talked, buzzing with energy, as usual.

Arthur simply nodded and started spooning the filling into the crust-lined pie pan.

"When are you gonna to talk to her?"

"I talk to her every day. Fetch me the flour, would you?"

Nancy shook her head and slid off the counter to take the plastic container over to him, setting it down with a soft thump that sent powder, like snow, into the air. Some of it settled in her brown curls. "No, I mean when are you gonna talk to her?" She quirked a single eyebrow to further emphasize her words.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Arthur wiped his hands together and watched her through another hazy cloud. "I haven't the slightest idea what you mean."

Nancy rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean, Pa, you just don't wanna admit it. 'Cause then it'll mean finally movin' on after Ma."

The timer on the oven told Arthur that it was preheated, and he frowned as he set the pie pan inside. Finally after a few seconds, he murmured, "Some things are better left unsaid."

"Some things that are left unsaid just leave you all dark and empty inside," she mused, waiting a bit before she spoke again. "All I'm saying is that it's been thirty-five years since Ma died, you deserve to live a little. It won't make you a terrible husband, or person at all, for that matter."

Monday rolled around, just like it always did, but when Arthur took his usual stroll down the quiet neighborhood streets, each of his steps sent another word pounding against his skull in Nancy's voice. Live. A. Little. He'd almost walked right past Mary Jane's house, before doubling back. She was huddled over that green notebook again, the pages bent at the corners and the cover faded from the sun. She was so busy scribbling away with her ballpoint pen that she didn't notice him staring, watching the words bleed onto the paper in her perfect cursive. It was only when she reached over for her cup of lemonade and knocked it to the ground that he jerked out of his frozen state.

"Here, let me get that for you," he said in a rush, and managed to hold back the groan of pain that came with bending down to retrieve it. In that instance, he felt something in the air shift as the repetition of their daily ritual was broken. He suddenly didn't know what to say once he'd  set the now empty cup back on the table.

Mary Jane smiled again, face turned up to the sun that bathed her in a warm glow, so vibrantly alive it made his own face heat up. "Thank you."

Arthur put his hands back in his pockets in an attempt to regain some control, because all that was racing through his mind were a thousand different things he couldn't bring himself to say. "Not a problem," he grunted, then fumbled for something to fill the silence. "So . . . find that special man yet?"

"Still searching," she said, with a hint of amusement hiding in her words, mystery twinkling in her eyes. "But something tells me I'm gettin' a little closer now."

He stammered something along the lines of, "That's great," and walked quickly back across the street, tripping on the last stair before he regained his balance and went inside.

The events of that Monday afternoon had left Arthur so breathless and slick with sweat that was on the back of his neck for another reason entirely that he skipped his walk for the first time in seven years. He stayed inside, curtains drawn, and made his home on the ripped and faded couch cushions with only the overly confident salesmen and women done up with perfect hair and makeup on the TV screen as his company. The things they said and did bounced off his mind like a rubber ball against a brick wall, the thoughts swirling around inside too complicated for him to comprehend much else. All he was able to do was wonder if Mary Jane would notice when he didn't walk by and say hello at 12:45.

Wednesday afternoon, 12:30. Heart pounding and wearing just a hint of cologne for the first time in a long while, Arthur made his way up the street. He walked quicker than usual, though, and by the time he went around the neighborhood and got to Mary Jane's house it was only 12:40. So he waited, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, and looked around for something more interesting than glancing down at his watch every few seconds.

Mary Jane looked surprised when she came outside, though not unhappy. She wore a long, floral sundress and a simple hat that seemed tailor made for her. Arthur found himself smiling before she even did, standing a little straighter.

"Arthur," she said, beaming, her walk that of the elderly but her voice still that of the young. "Well this is a surprise."

"Guess I walked a little faster today," he said without any further explanation and held her rocking chair still so she could sit down. "Whatcha up to, Mary Jane?"

"Oh, I think I'm going to finish that letter today." She flipped the notebook open to a page only half-filled with blue ink, spiraling around the lines of the paper like ivy that continued to creep downward. Arthur resisted the urge to look any closer and see what the words said. "I've been working on it for a while now, but my heart's telling me it's time to get on with it and just finish the blasted thing."

"I see." It was a struggle to keep his voice even, but he managed. "Does this mean you found that special man?"

"I should say so." Her lips curved up at the corners when she spoke, shielding her eyes with a hand--artist's hands, he thought vaguely--so she could look at him.

"And who's the lucky fella?"

She made a soft sighing noise and shook her head, still grinning. "A girl's gotta have her secrets. But I have a feeling you'll find out soon enough. Some things left unsaid eat away at your soul, you know. Only way to patch up the holes is to let the words out."

He almost said it right then. His mouth had opened and everything, prepared to let his tongue form around those very words that had been eating away at his soul, but he stopped himself. If he was going to live a little, he was going to do it right.

Back at the house, he took just a few seconds to grab his car keys and rush out to the garage. When he drove off down the street, he glanced at the rearview mirror, spotting Mary Jane still hunched over that notebook, writing with careful precision.

Ten minutes, he told himself. Then I'll talk to her.

Ten minutes and one dozen roses later, he pulled back into the garage, but he frowned when he noticed that Mary Jane was no longer in her rocking chair, though the notebook and pen still sat there. Figuring she'd gone inside for something to drink, he took a few more minutes to fix up his hair and put on a nice jacket, despite the heat. Better do it right, he thought again.

Three knocks, then silence. One ring of the doorbell, more silence. Arthur paced the small porch, sweat causing his shirt to stick to his back as the sun beat down. He went down the steps and started to head across the street to get his telephone, but Mary Jane's next door neighbor, Shelby, stopped him.

"Mr. Hill!" She called out, patting her golden waves as she rushed down the sidewalk in hot pink high heels. "Oh, Mr. Hill! Wait up!"

Arthur stopped and turned to face her, waiting so she could catch up and take a breath.

"You were lookin' for Mary Jane, weren't you?" Shelby said, without any pretense.

He nodded. "That's right. Haven't seen her, have you?"

She folded her hands in front of her and nodded solemnly, and he couldn't help but notice that her eyes were sad as she did so, so different from Mary Jane's sparkle. "I did. But--oh, Arthur, it was awful." And he was surprised to see her hiccup and cover her face with her hands as she let out a soft sob.

Arthur reached out to pat her shoulder, heart still beating against his ribcage almost painfully, though now his eyebrows were furrowed together in a single line. "What is it, Shelby? Where's Mary Jane?"

Shelby gasped again and shook her head. She pulled her hands away from her face, and her eyes were red and her cheeks were streaked with tears. "Oh, Arthur. She's passed away."

It took a long time for him to process this, the only sounds that punctured the heavy summer air her sniffles. When he did finally speak, his voice was hoarse. "That ain't true. Mary Jane was just here not ten minutes ago."

Shelby shook her head again, face a blotchy pink. "Just goes to show you how fast life can change. Just how much you gotta make every second count. One minute Mary Jane was crossin' the street, and I watched her, you know, just to make sure her hip didn't give out on her when she went up your porch. And the next she was crossin' back, but this car came out of nowhere and--" She choked on her words and looked away before continuing. "I called for an ambulance, but it was too late by the time it got here. It was quick, though. Her passing, I mean. She didn't suffer for long."

Arthur wasn't sure what he said to this, but at some point Shelby gave him a quick hug and went back to her house, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. He waited until she'd shut her front door to make his way back to Mary Jane's, a heavy tone to his step, the shuffled stride of one who carried a bag of bricks on his shoulder. Arthur paused on the front porch, staring, then laid the bouquet of roses on her doormat, petals slightly wilted from the heat.

His steps creaked again when he pulled himself up, clinging to the railing. But this time the high-pitched groaning sounded lonely without the rocking chair to join it. With a weight on his chest, he reached for the handle of the door, then hesitated when something caught his gaze and guided it down.

It was an envelope, yellowed with age, with something written on the front in blue ink. Once he'd bent down and picked it up, straightening once again with a sigh, he saw that the letters were in Mary Jane's perfect cursive, strung together like twinkling Christmas lights to form his name.

For the first time in thirty-five years, Arthur cried.

It only lasted a few seconds, but it was all he needed in that moment. Then, taking a breath with only the slightest of shudders, he stepped inside, settled down into the worn couch, opened the letter, and began to read.