Freshwater Literary Journal 2021

Susanne Davis Why Mrs. Morrison Was too Busy to Die Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die. That task, the most final of all, had been undertaken by too many in the small town of Asheville this year.

First, the seventeen- year old at the end of the street. He’d received a text from the girl he liked that she didn’t like him. He was found in the woods, overdosed.

Next, the middle-aged farm hand found in his car a day after he’d gone missing. No one knew if he’d taken opioids before or if this was the first time.

A tragedy, people whispered, because the woman he loved was due to deliver their baby within the month, and she’d taken up with another man who had a better job, health insurance, and a house for them to live in. At the farm hand’s funeral the farmer told the gathering of the man’s gift for working with the animals. He didn’t know what he’d do without him.

Most recently, a young woman overdosed after having her hours cut at Dunkin’ Donuts. While the first two overdoses affected Mrs. Morrison, the third one cracked her right open.

So, no way could Mrs. Morrison die now, even though her doctor had told her to get ready. Her tumor, found late, hadn’t responded to treatment. But Mrs. Morrison rejected the doctor’s timeline for her life. She couldn’t die now, not now with so many grieving the three lost to the opioid crisis. In this war against hopelessness, she was a warrior, determined to fight.

With the first two overdoses she’d fought the war with homemade chicken soup, and cheese casseroles, and chocolate chip cookies.

She’d fought with her favorite passage from the New Testament, “All things work together for good for those that love God.” She loved God and her town, and figured she’d see results, but none of these weapons seemed to stem the tide.

Then one night just days after the third overdose funeral, when she watched the evening news, trying to avoid the sunny photo on her mantel of a girl lost and buried, Mrs. Morrison saw an investigative report on how the opioids were getting into the country from China: through the postal system.

The next morning, Mrs. Morrison arrived at the post office door, 8 a.m. sharp. The postmaster, Tom Randall, ran the post office alone. He’d been doing so for 30 years. Mrs. Morrison waited for him to unlock the door and as soon as he did she said, “Morning, Tom. Did you see the evening news last night?”

“Can’t say I did,” he said.

Mrs. Morrison told him about the report. “Through the mail. Can you believe that?”

Tom shook his head. “What the hell,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

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