She sits in a corner these days, quite alone.  Unyielding and ever patient.  

She’s learning to enjoy the freedom, to appreciate the respite.  And waits, knowing soon enough she’ll be useful once more.

Time helps to bring perspective to the memories of bitter tears, cross words and angry fists.  It heals the wounds, nursing them into honourable scars.

She misses the caress of rhythmic rolling pins, the clatter of cutlery, the stab of crayons, the tickle and smell of workaday sawdust.

She longs for the poking elbows of grateful prayers, the weight of full plates, the burden of empty bowls, the joy of conversation. 

Now and then, when she feels fresh linen cool her down, she’ll wallow gratefully in the scent, and allow herself to smile;

She might not have much, but her four stout legs have seen five score years and ten.  And there’s plenty of life to come.

Inspired by this poem:
https://m.poemhunter.com/poem/perhaps-the-world-ends-here/