Her trash, neatly bagged in black plastic, rests beside her mailbox for the Monday pickup.
No truck is parked in her drive; these days her green four-wheel-drive
is across the road, at her son’s home but even so
the windows of her house sparkle with welcome.
the lace curtains gleam white in the sun.
Here she lives in the home she’s known
for 70 years and counting, familiar rooms and furniture
and a smell that says this is where she belongs.
Her back bends under the command of age and her eyes
are clouded and rheumy though still the bright blue
he fell in love with, all those years ago.
Now he is gone, along with the sawmill, the tractor
and the garden that was once his pride.
She seeks balance on familiar furniture,
feeling her way to her kitchen where she moves assuredly,
knowing the place of every pan and pot, every bowl and spoon.
At eighty-plus years she stays steady on in the place
she has called home for most of her life.
she will see the end of her time
and she will be comfortable
in the rightness of it all.