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The Spoon Collection

Sylvia Burke stood in the small group in the cemetery, bidding farewell to her husband of 27 years. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, she raged at the unfair turn life had given her. Just when her husband Tom was about to retire, and ready to begin the traveling they had planned to do, he was run down by a drunk driver, no warning, in a flash, he was just gone. Returning home later that day, she paused briefly in the foyer, where her extensive spoon collection was displayed in mahogany cases on the wall. Tom had made the cases when her collection started growing, spoons from the places they had already been, marking joyous times in their marriage. She removed a spoon from her purse, one from the gathering after the funeral, and thoughtfully placed it in the case.

The next few days passed in a blur for Sylvia, her grief still fresh and tears still overtaking her quite frequently. The only habit she maintained was her daily news show that Tom used to watch with her faithfully every night. She began to notice a common thread in the news, people whose actions deserved much more than a cursory incarceration, people who had ruined others' lives through their actions, much like the drunk driver that had caused Tom's death.

Sylvia became obsessed with finding out everything she could about these perpetrators of sorrow, who they were, where they lived, any scrap of information she could find. Soon she had amassed quite a scrapbook of them, and spent much time looking at them, her indignation at their callous disregard for people growing each day. The idea that these people were even allowed out on bail, safe and secure at home until their trial, caused her no end of torment.

The first one happened quite by accident. Sylvia was making the rounds in the neighborhood, collecting used clothing for the poor. Her pastor had suggested she keep busy, and this was a good way to get out of the house for a while. Knocking at the door, she paused, noticing the name on the mailbox, John Peterson, and when the door opened, she was shocked to find herself looking at the same face she had pasted in her scrapbook. John Peterson had been the drunk driver who caused her husbands' untimely death, and by the looks of his ruddy face and unsteady gait, was in a state of inebriation once again. Quickly forcing a smile, Sylvia inquired as to whether he had clothes for the poor, and he waved her inside, almost falling as he made contact with the wall.

She sat in the

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