The elderly woman, eighty-years-old,
who’s widowed, lives alone in a three bedroom
bungalow, survives on a meager pension,
endures isolation for days on end,
interrupted occasional by a passerby,
most often, the mailman.
In recent years, she’s battled breast
cancer, resulting in double mastectomy.
Her eyesight clouded by cataracts.
Her knees inflicted with arthritis.
Her mind dulled by early dementia.
Despite the setbacks , she rises every morning,
at dawn, when a clock on the bedside table
rings. Then she thanks the Lord for another
day of life, wraps herself in a blue, fleece bathrobe,
slides her feet into beige cotton slippers,
hobbles to the kitchen, balancing herself
with a wooden cane.
There she makes herself breakfast,
oatmeal cereal, toast and jam
A cup of Earl Grey tea, takes
the food and drink to the living room,
places them on a TV tray.
She fetches the newspaper from the front porch,
returns to the living room,
turns on the vintage RCA Victor ,
listens to talk radio, relaxes in her ragged
burgundy wing chair, her feet resting on
a foot stool.
She takes a few mouthfuls of oatmeal,
nibbles on the toast like a bird at the feeder,
sips the hot tea, reads the paper with a magnify glass,
headlines, occasional article, then becomes a detective
looking for clues to solve Word Search, Sudoku.
Afterwards, she affectionately pats, Waldo,
her pet Schnauzer, loyal companion,
laying curled up beside her, then mutters,
“It’s a good day. My name’s not in the obituaries.”