She
Every day she waited.
Daybreak beckoned rising, readying for possibilities no eye could see nor ear hear. Not even she might rightly guess at happenings before appointed time.
Routines ran their course within her world. Little plans she’d ventured, thinking out the night before, unfolded one by one, never interrupted by sound of other’s voice.
Though sun blazed overhead, her house rested – quiet, undisturbed – except for dust flecks floated down to settle for the instant she allowed before swift swipe into oblivion.
Tea stood ready. No one came to call.
Evening shadows lengthened, slow to cross a mantle seldom warmed by life or fire.
When nine o’clock struck long and low she switched off lamps and slowly climbed the stairs.
At hall’s end stood a room complete with queen-sized bed. She chose a chair beside instead.
Neighbors bent their heads to sleep at late night hour.
She could not. She waited still.