In Prose, an Ode to Pat

Pat sure knows how to treat his girls.

Yesterday I returned from work to find a note on the front door. The following was written in pencil on a ripped corner of plain white paper: "2-13-06, 4.10. You have a flower delivery at [an address a few doors down the block]. M, Flowers on the Park."

"Hmm, flowers," thought I. "They must be for J; if anyone happened to be remotely considering sending flowers to me, he would not know my address. This is sketchy, though. I'm not going to someone's random door by myself to ask for possibly nonexistent flowers. It could be all a ploy to kidnap us!" And with this logical stream of reasoning, I left the note on the dining room table and went out to run an errand.

Upon arriving back at home, I spotted a lovely display of roses on the kitchen table. "Oooh, whose flowers?" I sang toward J.

"Yours," Ali replied from around the corner. "Dad sent some for you, and me, and Mom. Did you see this sketchy note? J went to pick them up."

"By yourself? You could have been kidnapped!" I exclaimed.

"I know, I thought about it," J replied. "But then I figured, probably not."

So now three vases of roses, a dozen and a half in all, grace our living room, accenting its blues and greens with palest lavender and white-edged pink and velvet red. I repeat: Pat sure knows how to treat his girls.