growing old

by rachel

Her grasshopper skin fell about her in a brittle mourning wreath. Her eyes glazed with memories of the sixty years that had passed, burning with dreams of the twenty that beckoned temptingly by. Freedom was a wailing child she had neglected to cradle, its arms craving her pacifier hug, her arms craving its thunder voice and searching heart. Their hands in each others’ built a universe of myriad chaos reflected in the dome of a fish’s glassy eyes, streets that lilted upwards with her smile, folding in on loose skin that was, itself, learning to fold around a shrinking body.