Her head was down while she tried to catch her breath.
I saw only the severe part down the middle of her gray hair.
We slowed at the stop sign next to her driveway.
It was one of those sunny, cool days in early October.
She must have been sweltering in that shapeless ivory sweater.
I wondered if it might have been her husband’s.
I looked for traces of him as we came to a full stop.
One car sat in the driveway, an older model blue minivan.
No flag for the local sports team, no miscellany of tools.
Just a hodgepodge of dried mum wreaths and navy barn stars.
As we picked up speed, she was bent low over her garden rake.
Calloused hands on wooden staff, wide wale hunter green corduroy.
We drew her attention as we accelerated.
She tipped upward her chin, met my eyes, and she smiled.
Epics wrapped up in the curves of those lips and angles of teeth.
As she moaned and gathered her fallen apples.
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