There’s expectation in her face
Even though she’s dressed in mourning,
But for a bonnet of white lace
And white cuffs and a wedding ring
Half-hidden by a kerchief gripped
So tightly it might have ripped.
Her straight chair sits on a gray rug,
Shoes on a padded wooden rest.
Silver threaded curtains hug
Gray walls as if they hid a guest
Once welcomed and now departed.
I wonder how her son started —
Arranging the grays and blacks square
Or with his mother’s haunting stare.
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