She sat on the same chair everyday, a peripheral observer, waiting, always waiting for that rainy day.
Occasionally she went out to attend to Life, a stranger that passed her each day.
She clutched her purse tightly. It represented her worth, her currency, comfort for when that day would come.
She had been waiting so long and then it came suddenly, that stroke that cut her circulation, immobilized her to a garden patch where seeds did not grow.
The rain had come and gone and taken her away.
Money from her purse lay strewn on the floor, it too unspent.