“good morning,”

sings the doorbell.

“Open up, open up,”

followed by a light

shuffle of feet.
mrs. is a title that fits

now – she ‘misses’ many,

many things. not the least

 of which is optimism.
the sewing machine

keeps moving, keeps

building. gets stuck,

and keeps going.

how kind of it.
gingerbread has a

very distinctive smell,

and she will never forget

it. ginger and laughter

– a perfect recipe.


now that it is only

her, she sees the

fragments

differently. tears

them apart, and knits

them back together.
the morning tastes of

many things, and

loneliness is one of

them.
home: tea, milk, no

sugar. the sound of

ceramic as the

teaspoon ricochets

inside it.
she can’t think when

she last cleaned the

window – but she

smiles to see the tiny

fingerprints still on it.


a to-do list, hastily

scrawled, and

dropped in kitchen

flour.
the baubles, never

taken down, have

started to break; like

shattered glass.

shattered glass up

against a tree…
“i’m sorry for your

loss – we came as

soon as we heard.”
a butterfly lands on

the bouquet, and her

hands shake. how

beautiful.


red and blue circle

each other in a

whirlwind dance,

contrasting the

fireworks above.
knitting needles –

another thing that

moves, but goes

nowhere.
scones, like her own

grandmother used to

make. she hasn’t

quite perfected the

recipe yet.
and the rocking chair

goes back-and-forth,

back-and forth,

back-and-forth…


dawn sets the clouds

on fire, and the stars

seem closer than

ever. tomorrow has

arrived yet again.
“how kind of you,”

and the floorboards

creak their grieving

thank yous.
stringing up the

tinsel, and the fairy

lights. red and blue;

and green and

yellow.
the bedsheets feel

colder than usual –

but only until she

remembers why.