By April Russell

Josie hadn’t missed a sunrise in twenty-five years. Even on those bleak winter mornings, when the wind raced across the ashy coastline and through the quiet frozen streets of Catyville where it grabbed the icy branches of the spindly elm trees and spun them in a dance of creaks and snaps, Josie could be seen tottering down the shiny cobblestone walkway in her faded apricot sweater.

Her routine, meaningless by some accounts in the small whispery town, never varied except on those days when the vendors in Chitwood Square received their new stock. It was on these mornings that Josie took extra time to ready herself for the day’s adventure- packing her blue linen purse (instead of the smaller brown one) with an extra apple and two quarters to buy the Sunday Gazette.

On these special days she wore a different scarf, too. It was light green, the color of fresh spring grass, she thought, and trimmed along the edges with tiny faux pearls. She wore it because the man who sold the paper roses would always tell her that it brought out the color of her eyes, and that always made her smile.

“I do say, Miss Josie, that scarf sure do bring out the color of your eyes. How’d you like a nice paper rose?” Josie would smile that same tender, timid smile she gave to all the vendors who had come to know her over the years. The market didn’t officially open until nine, but when the merchants saw her making her way down Pike Lane with morning sun burning bright behind her narrow, hunching shoulders, they would grab their keys and begin unlocking the heavy wooden crates for her to rummage through. Although she rarely bought anything, the men never seemed to mind. They looked at her with a mixture of awe and intrigue, feeling strangely blessed by her unshakeable presence.

For hours she would float through the maze of tables and boxes stacked high with everything from fresh fish to overpriced Italian rugs. With her hands, their tiny wrinkles a reminder of her fading youth, she would stroke each item, relishing the touch of the silky fabrics and cool glass pieces against her skin. She marveled at their colors: rich emerald feathers and bright magenta beads all spinning like a kaleidoscope before her eyes, dizzying her with an intoxicating swirl.

The air around the marketplace buzzed with the sounds of life. The men shouted greetings at one another and heavy machines bumped and growled near the ports. The ocean slapped hard against the rocky shore, sending a relaxing hum into the salty breeze that floated past the tiny shops. Josie would stop and breathe it in deep, as far as it would go, her heart pounding.

Next, she would take her seat at Willard’s stand, one of the last stops on her way home. His rose shop sat at the far side of the market square, the last vendor before the new seafood restaurant that had just came into town.

“Catyville’s a changin’ everyday, Miss Josie,” Willard would say. “Ain’t nuthin’ ever stay the same.” She’d pull the lumpy apples from her purse, taking care to shine each one with the hem of her sweater before handing one to him.

“No ma’am. ‘Bout the only thing I know the same ‘round here is my sorry ‘ole luck.” Then Willard would laugh. His was a deep, wheezy, raspy sort of laugh, one that both contrasted and complimented Josie’s shy, simple giggle.

His hands shook slightly as he ran the rusty blade of his pocketknife through the ruby skin of the apple. “These here teeth would fly right out my head if I tried to bite into this thing.” And then with his tongue, he’d flick the plate at the roof of his mouth, sending the porcelain dentures shooting in and out of his moist purple lips like the head of a turtle.

The roses rested in barrels around their feet and in dusty ceramic pots along the handmade tables that faced the eastern pier. From a distance they looked animated, as if an artist with a giant paintbrush had dipped down and blessed the dreary sky with a dash of color. They fascinated Josie with their simplicity and beauty. She’d watch in quiet amazement as Willard would wind the thin sheets of paper around the wire stems, each fold delicate and unique as the creases than ran deep within his dark, tired face.

It was a trade he had learned from his father, the same man who had moved him and his brothers to Catyville a year before the flood had came through and took them all away. Since then life had been solitary, much the way it had been for Josie all these years.

There were a few around who remembered it. The rest had just heard the tale passed on in barbershops and grocery store isles, where women with long cigarettes and babies on their hips would shake their heads in dismay. They would lower their voices whenever she’d pass by, pretending not to see her or that they didn’t know the truth.

Frank had been Josie’s husband for the better part of his life. He was a fisherman and one of the best that the town had ever seen. Pictures of him and his prize-winning catch still lined the musty walls of the Catyville town hall. Frank had gone out one day when a storm struck and never returned. They found his boat two miles out on sea, the sails torn to thin strips by the harsh Atlantic winds.

Josie waited hours that day, the story went. She waited long into the night on the eastern pier until the men returned in their search boats, a spotlight illuminating their solemn, stony faces. She walked home that night in silence and hadn’t spoken to anyone since. Even Willard, who she had sat with for decades, had never heard more from her than a weak laugh or sigh. Her eyes told him enough, he would tell the other vendors when they pressed him for answers- her eyes had said plenty.

From Willard’s she would make her way towards the abandoned shore. Stepping out onto the creaky pier she paused, letting out a painful moan that shattered the silence of the mid-afternoon and scared away the seagulls that had been perched near the end, bathing in the leftover sun. She walked carefully to the end, leaning out as far as she could go, allowing the cool mist to blow against her face where it mingled with the moisture that filled her eyes and moved slowly down her cheeks.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the newspaper she had picked up along the way, settling down into the spot where the seagulls had once been. She opened up the paper and began to read. Her voice floated out across the water, proud and clear, regaling each word to an invisible husband. She didn’t stop reading until she had finished each sentence, even the tiny ads that announced a sale on furniture or a band that was coming to town. Each syllable drifted from her mouth and sank sweetly into the deep blue sea where it was trapped with the fish, and the men, and the boats that would never again be seen.

Gracefully, she rose to her feet and pulled the paper flower from her purse. In one smooth motion she tossed it from the pier and out into the sky. That same angry wind from years before snatched it up, twisting and twirling it like a shiny baton before dropping it to its watery grave. Josie watched as the petals darkened, floating for just a few seconds before filling with the cold, powerful fluid that would eventually drag them down. She then turned, pulling her sweater tight across her body, and headed back up the pier and down the tiny cobblestone streets that led her home.