She sings like she's in church all the time
She drives with both hands on the wheel
And
Leaves curlers in her hair long past her last cup of coffee.

She flies in aisle seats so she won't get sick
And besides, she doesn't need a window to see the sky.

She drinks wine coolers on special occasions
She gardens on arthritic knees
She lives alone in the house she grew up in.

It's a house full to the brim of memories,
Where black and yellowed photographs cascade upon you
When you open the creaky front door.

Step inside, and the ghosts of a thousand loves,
A hundred losses,
And an infinite number of stories fall upon you.

She lives here,
The weight of the world
On her straight-postured shoulders.
She smiles like summer
And cries like July.

You look at her flyaway curls
Her fresh-cut-grass eyes.
She opens her mouth and out they pour,

Tales of faraway lands
And
Promises so deep,

You'll never look at old maids the same again.