Sixty-three Year Old Widow Refused to Hide Her Gray Hair at Work

dusty from the dampness of the pipes under the basin.

I walked out to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of yesterday’s coffee, heating it in the microwave until the white mug was hot enough to burn my fingers. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as I walked back to the table.