The Chair By The Window

I drove by everyday
glancing at my watch,
checking the gas gauge.
In a hurry to someplace
or no place at all.
Among rows of darting cars
on my important travels,
I scurried past
her.

I saw her everyday
sitting oddly still.
Her hands folde4d in her lap,
aluminum blonde strands curled neatly.
She watched traffic
in her chair by the window.

I drove by every day
and, in my hurry,
remembered our visits.

Her blue pocket eyes
would widen with warm welcome,
and her henerous hands
would humbly serve
guests who'd leave too soon.

We would gather 'round the oak table
savoring stories retold.
The same boisterous laughter
would paint the papered walls.
She scoffed at the 1950's
and her betrayal of manners and custom.
"Well, if men can smoke cigarettes
and drink wine, so can I!"
she sqeaked and cackled.

We would gather 'round the oak table
and dine on trademark taco salad,
with too many tomatoes,
amidst the scent of brewing coffee.
Her knowing eyes feigned innocence
with round mischief.

We would gather 'round the oak table
and she would sit content,
sipping water
in her chair by the window.

I drove by everyday;
scurried past her smiling face
that watched the rows of darting cars
headed to all different places.

Some would hurry home
to embrace grinning children
as she had once done.

Some would rush home
to sip white wine
in front of a warm hearth
as she missed doing.

Others would be driving
to funerals
not yet ready
to say goodbye.

I still drive by everyday
glancing at my watch,
checking the gas gauge.

I scurry past
among the rows of darting cars
on my important travels.

I still drive by
and look for her;
to see her smiling face
in the empty chair by the window.