She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odor of dusty lace. She was tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses.
Her thoughts went back to happier times. She remembered as a girl, she would help her mother set the table for Sunday breakfast. She could smell the coffee perking on the coal stove, as bacon sizzled in the pan and hot buttered scones were piled high on a plate.
The large family was always famished and noisy as they sat down to eat. There was always laughter and storytelling and then off to Sunday mass.
But that was a long time ago and things had changed; she never saw the family now. Her Sundays were filled with nostaglia. No one came to visit her; they were too busy with their own lives.
As the darkness entered the room, she did not move to turn on the light. It was as if she needed it for comfort.