She blew the dust over the forgotten tomes, crouching down with a duster tucked in her apron.
The windows creaked with the wind; begging to let in the secrets of the sea.
She knelt on the floor, scrubbing the dust grains and forgotten days that were trapped in the cracks, soap suds in the ringlets crowning her head.
A hum carried in the warm air, an incessant lullaby that chased her like the ghosts of her childhood.
She hung the scarves and skirts on the line outside, filling the air with a sharp scent of soap, the unkempt garden rubbing their wild flowers on her petticoats. Her hand shaded her vision from the sunlight as she stood momentarily arrested in thought, staring out into the horizon.
The blue of the sea,
The blue of the sky,
The curl of her lip
The shine of her eyes, and a forgotten prayer.
In the rosary beads that hang from her wrist, in the curves of her narrow shoulders weighed down with hope.
In the omnipresent tug at her heart, as she gazed out into the untrodden driveway to her porch.
One side of the wardrobe is frozen shut. She pries it open with a tug, coughing at the sudden burst of disuse and dust.
Shadows hang from the rods, of coats arranged in order of comforts, and pants tailored to a waist.
Her fingers absently run through unworn trousers smelling slightly of mothballs, remembering the man it once adorned.
She hears a mournful cry, from the unwound pocket watch that lay by a desk of unsent letters. The fob-chain she still polished with care, but one cannot fight the rust of memory.
Her gaze is far away, her thoughts further still, in a place where there were no wild flowers, no washing lines, no forgotten books. Where the breeze did not knock on the window panes with salt sprays.
It was with a man, who gnawed on stale bread in a trench, his toes rotting in broken boots. It was with a battalion of young hearts who had come for glory, and waited for death. It was in barracks with cold blankets and crude jokes.
It was with those men who decided the ground was worth a battle, and a woman worth a waiting.
It was in the loneliness of love in a world without any remorse, and she glared at the cold cross that offered her no solace.
As the sun kissed the iron waters, the waves threw themselves at the rocks in dramatic despair, the bed creaked with her weight.
She touched the ashes preserved in a small box, the ring on her finger a reminder of the hopeless.
She fought sleep, and the inevitable nightmare where the right side of the bed was no longer empty.
Where the ghost of her husband lay shivering, gasping out the blood-spraying breathes that defract in the tears that rain down her eyes, his warm brown gaze accusing her for letting him die alone.