The Lady In The Bright Blue Coat

She starts the day with a kettle’s song,
sings along with the radio,
eggs gently bubbling like promises
she’s long stopped waiting to keep.

The sun’s a bit too shy to shine,
but she polishes the window anyway.
She walks to the bus stop in shoes
that know every crack in the pavement,
says good morning to a lad with a dog
who never says much, but his dog wags a greeting.

Once, she met a lady in a bright blue coat,
who said, “I know you, don’t I?”
with a squint and a half-smile
that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She just nodded, easy as a sigh—
some glances weigh less than others.

At the launderette, she swaps tales
of grandkids and weather,
hands soft from fabric softener,
life’s stiff corners smoothed by routine.
She listens to the snips of gossip—
someone’s daughter’s tattoos,
someone’s son’s new hair.

She lunches on a jacket potato
that’s as warm as her cardigan’s pockets,
the girl at the counter polite enough,
though her eyes flicker down to hands
she doesn’t quite know the story of.
Still, she likes the butter melting in neat lines,
like the best of small comforts.

Later, she sits by the window,
reading a library book on wildflowers,
and thinks how lovely it is
that even weeds get a chapter.
She knows a thing or two about roots,
how they spread beneath, unseen,
but always reaching.

And if, at night, she tucks away
the memory of a suit and tie,
a voice a little deeper,
and a name that doesn’t fit
the way it used to—
she doesn’t mind.

After all, she’s made a life
of finding the best in things.

• The Lady In The Bright Blue Coat by Jay Rose Ana