Dora Says He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not . . .

Dear Readers,

I must have planted fifty rose bushes this long summer of 1915. While I am waiting for that first letter from Edward I have to keep myself busy doing something. The rose garden is along the long gravel driveway. It's on the way to the mailbox at the street. I pass it twice every day, once on my way to the mailbox full of hope and once on the way back, disappointed and longing for tomorrow. I often linger there and see Edward's face in the rose blooms. I pluck a flower now and then and tear off all the petals, saying to myself, "He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me . . . "

It may sound whimsical for a Lusitania survivor, but what else am I going to say?

Sincerely yours,

Dora Benley