WAITING






Before, she would wait outside and
      smoke a cigarette until the moon came up.

She would wait, with her apron spread wide across her lap, the shape of the cigarette pack outlined in shadow
through the fabric.

She would wait, working her fingers in and out of the sides of the matchbox, sliding the tray through its
sheath—exposing first the red tips then the wood tips.

She would wait, while the shadow of her seated figure elongated along the slats of the porch, stretching ‘til she
filled all the empty spaces that were waiting with her.

She would wait, half-shadowed, half-moonlit, dotting the darkness with the red glow of her cigarette then
misting the moonlight with her smoke.

She waited, until the men from town came.
They did not tell her the news she had waited for.

                                                   -Linda Fretwell