A commentary on aging, women, downsizing, and dignity.

She lived for 20 years across the street
With her husband James
A tough, WWII vet from the Bronx
That she buried last Christmas
“Husband Number Two”
She would say, as she looked down and away
In disappointment and disbelief
At a life that kept leaving her
Completely alone.

She played her piano
And pulled her trash cans
In and out each Tuesday
Until she could no longer
Compromise the curb
And knew it was time to “downsize”
The modern way, to give things away
To rough men from the Salvation Army
That took her rugs and her shoes
Her electric heater and kitchen table
To a waiting truck already packed with
Her green refrigerator.

They slammed the door closed
On the very last load
Of all that is Joan
Now a bulk shipment
To a downtown thrift shop
To be picked through and sold.

She left for the last time
With a single box and a portrait
Of James in an easy chair
By that red, raspberry lamp
That lit up her living room
For most of her life
Now left for a scavenger
By the blue “Rent Me” bin
To never warm-up a shade
Or light up a window
Again.