Presence

In the trailer it’s morning. She makes the coffee now, because her husband’s hands aren’t alive to hold down the grinder. Noisy as he was, she liked the way his voice carried down the narrow corridor and the sound of the lawnmower creating a thin square of green in back before the earth turned to marsh past the wire fence.
She cannot walk all that well anymore. Moves along the carpet in inches. The hallway is a long journey, oceans of green painted wall, landmarks of framed photographs, a socket, a scuff. She has to remember to take everything she needs from her bedroom, or else she will have to make the journey back. Awful work, and she forgets often.
Coffee ready, she puts it in a thermos, and that in a bag. With it over her shoulder, she pushes her walker to the small glassed-in entryway. She has a chair set up there. Once she’s settled, she can look up at the road, see the cars passing. Her shirt will turn to a flash of pink as you drive by.