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 kitchen waiting for his return, agitation evident in her clenched fists, the shiny glint of the kitchen knives catching her eye. Horrified at the murderous thoughts creeping into her mind, she tried to dismiss them, only to have them come back as insistently as the picture of Tom's lifeless body. As Peterson lurched into the kitchen, she swiftly rose, and in one fell swoop, grabbed the knife and plunged it into his heart. She sat down again, amazed at how quiet it was, just as if nothing had happened, and she herself was quite calm, under the circumstances. Most of the blood had fallen on the pile of clothes in his hands, and she swiftly gathered them up into a plastic bag, along with the large knife she removed from his body, and decided to just leave. Before she did, she smiled to herself, and took a spoon from the kitchen draw, just like a souvenir. Returning home, she ran the clothes through the wash and folded them up to bring to the church. The new spoon sat nicely in the mahogany case in the foyer.
Pastor Redmond was delighted at the amount of clothing Sylvia had been collecting for the poor, and Sylvia herself was delighted at her new calling. Not that she really planned any of this, she would just happen to check her scrapbook before leaving for the day, noting the addresses she had painstakingly procured, and making a note to stop in on her collection route.
Quite curiously, she felt no qualms about her new mission in life, and found this new job rather easy. She was not threatening in appearance, and most people invited her in quite readily. And as always, she quickly laundered and pressed all the clothes on her return, and added a new spoon to her collection. There were so many bad, bad people out there! Why do they deserve to still be here, when families grieve and suffer?
A year passed, and Sylvia returned home one day from her mission, suddenly finding herself out of breath, and sharp pains radiating from her chest down her arms, and she slipped into unconsciousness, clutching a spoon in her hand.
Pastor Redmond helped the neighbor's box up the rest of Sylvia's belongings the following week, as she had no known relatives. Glancing at the mahogany cases still prominently displayed on the wall, he noticed the last forty or so spoons were not the same as the other, ornate ones she had collected, but rather plain, like regular tableware. He shrugged, and remarked to the neighbors what a wonderful woman she was, and how much their parish would miss her.