She was sitting at the bus stop br dressed in turn of the century black br waiting for the bus br that takes the leftovers br to visit the recently departed br br I see them every week br their cotton bags br filled with rusty garden tools br their skin pulled back br in grimaces br of exhausted martyrdom br The Death Brigade br doing their duty br with religious desperation br br and I’ve often wondered br if they ever feel br an ounce of love br for the tedious br thankless job br of tending graves br br But she stood out br from the musty throng br br She’d dressed up br for the occasion br her delicate liver-spotted fingers br were wrapped br in black lace gloves br br beneath her pillbox hat br there was dignity br and sorrow br in each lock of silver hair br br and I wished br she wasn’t waiting br for that bus br or at least br that someone else would notice br that her tools were br in the words br she couldn’t speak br and the sadness br she was hiding br br and the garden br she’d be tending br was in bloombr br Sheila Knowlesbr br