Mrs.Bloomer

I was five when I first met Mrs. Bloomers. She was sitting in that wooden rocking chair. I never liked that rocking chair, there was Just something...off about it. Little did I know seven years later, on that very same day, would be the last I saw of her, and her rocking chair.

It was late October, and everyone was getting ready for Halloween. I walked down my block to Mrs. Bloomers' house, and was suprised to see a light grey minivan parked in her always-empty driveway. I was confused at first, wondering who's car that was, but I assumed it was a relative or a friend.

I slowly walked up the steps to her house, noting that the rocking chair was gone. I knocked on her door, once, twice, three times. No response. Confused, I started walking down the steps, wondering where she was. Mrs. Bloomers is always home, I thought to myself. As i reached the last step, I heard the door creep open, and I saw not Mrs. Bloomers, nor her caregiver, but a middle-aged woman, peering out of the door frame.

"Excuse me, but who are you?" she calmly asked.

"I'm.. I'm a friend of Mrs. Bloomers, is she home?", I stuttered, wondering who was this woman, and where was Mrs. Bloomers. A million thoughts spiraled through my head, from aliens to time travelers. The woman's voice broke my train of thought, and said

"Honey.. Mrs. Bloomers, or how I called her, Ma... passed away ten years ago. We moved in two weeks ago, while you were with your grandma.

"Wait a minute, how do you know where I was two weeks ago, and who are you!

" I am Rosey Bloomers, and Mrs. Bloomers daughter, and i was having a lovely conversation with your mother.

I just statred at her I stared running home fast as my legs could carry me. When I got home I started flipping trough all the family album's, searching for pictures of me and hert. They were all gone! I couldn't believe my eyes, was she a figment of my imagination!? That would sure explain alot, from half sentances to forgetting where she was. But deep down, I still belive that she's out there, waiting for me. I may have forgotten who she was if it was not for the book bag she had imbroidered for me. I had miraculously found it under my bed, stuffed away, forgotten. this is my last scrap of her in my head, not the one that died a decade ago.