The widow's weeds hung crisply on the wardrobe door.
Starched and upright, that's how she knew she must stay.
Dower in dress and demeanour.
It was what was expected of her.
Family spoke in hushed tones the floor below.
Arranging tomorrow, remembering him, organising her.
Waiting for her to fall apart.
When she walked into the room, she expected them to be ready,
hands out ready to catch.
It was what was expected of her.
She smoothed the jacket arm,
picking off minuscule fuzz.
She wouldn't fluff up tomorrow,
she would act with decorum and respect, but
withdrawn.
It was what was expected of her.
It was what she needed to do.
To get away with his murder.
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