Each day she welcomed
the knock at her door….
For a few short smiles
the world entered with kindness
carrying the scent of baked bread,
cinnamon, and roast beef.
She remembers the week silence began.
At first she thought it was a mistake.
There was snow, but her street was clear.
Monday was late. That’s all…Monday was just late.
But Tuesday forgot the soup, Friday the apple tart…
Days kept passing without a voice, the sound of a car door,
meals to keep life from surrendering to bone.
Now she listens to memories sing from the photographs on her wall.
A widow was once a wife, a dried womb a mother,
inked words turned poem, a soul led by compassion.
Weary, she sits by her kitchen window
dining on hunger pains, and lonely.
She had lived 80 Thanksgivings
to arrive at an empty cupboard on 81.
Her best lavender dress hangs in the doorway
so they will know it was her favorite color
when a knock returns to the front door.
©Susie Clevenger 2017