settling

as the box lowers
into the fresh
cut grave
and the dirt
settles down
upon it
she remembers
the chair she took
as a child,
wanting one by
the window, not
in front
near a door.
she recalls
the boy she married,
not tall,
or attractive,
or even smart, but
just kind enough
to be hers
and be liked
by others.
then there was
the house not on
the water, but
further into town,
near the train
station, where
her dishes rattled.
the job she worked
at for a lifetime
was good enough
as well,
the money short,
the hours long,
the work itself mundane,
she could have
done much more.
and the dress she
wanted, not the green
one she wore,
but the one
in the window,
blue and bright
as an april sky.
it's still there,
forevermore.