Every Sunday

Every Sunday

she puts on the white jacket her mother used to wear
the one she knitted out of seven yarns
in that winter of misdiagnosed illness

she wraps her hands in silk gloves
they look as if they belong to someone else

her steps are firm on the tiled pavement
as she walks down the street to buy the newspaper
her wishes cocooned in a prayer

back home, she unfolds the pages
one by one underneath the attic window

she cuts out single words
to place them on cushions
made of leafs she picked from the maple tree

the tree still standing in front of the house
that once had been theirs