The room is basic, functional.
Most of my day is spent staring out of the lone window.
Occasionally my son stops by. The visits are brief. I have nothing important to say and he is too busy to linger. Sometimes I ask him to fix something. The frustrated expression on his face tells me that I have lived long enough to be a burden.
It’s cold by the window in the evenings, like standing before an open refrigerator.
This year I spent money on a thicker coat at the thrift store. It doesn’t make my face any warmer or stop the frost that settles on the ledge, but it makes me look less poor on the rare day that I step out onto the street. Unless someone looks closely at my shoes. But no one does. No one cares.