her tea and morning crumpet.
to sit
by the window
like her mother
did
back in England.
a book in
her lap,
the cat
not far, upon the sill,
perhaps.
the big clock
wound and
ticking.
the mice asleep
behind
the wood.
it's peaceful. soon
the mailman
will come
up the stairs.
thirteen steps, she
hears.
the children will
be out on the playground
with their
beginnings.
it's
not dying,
she believes, but
living.
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