She sits in her big red armchair, hand touching her left ear
Eyes alert. Swift look at the clock-
It’s not lunchtime- yet.
Up since dawn she stifles a yawn
Ankles crossed- feet twitching slightly
Two clocks tick- only one is wound nightly.
The wireless is on- it’s McGregor again
A daily ritual in number nineteen
Memories flicker into conversation as a man tells of the death of a generation.
She dresses plain- no jewellry to be seen- only her slim wedding band.
She starts to talk using her hand.
Jumper and pinafore- uniform- regulation blue cardigan- well worn
A smile leaps to her lips- more memories into conversation
Two clocks still tick.
Now it’s lunchtime- the ritual is at an end.
Up she gets- wireless switched off- McGregor is finished for today.
It will be on again next day.
The big red armchair stands empty
Into the kitchen my wee gran’s away