She sat before me on the edge of the bed smiling, with her leathery hands intertwined and placed upon the crocheted blanket folded out over her lap. There was a certain beauty in those purple age spots that crawled up the sides of her arms and pigmented her tan cheeks in small, abnormal patches. Previously I had seen pictures of her when she was younger; a pale-breasted enchantress, with the brilliant eyes of a young doe. And now, before me, she tried to procure this seductive look with a sweet smile, as though I was one of the many men she had courted. She was nothing of her former beauty, I concluded, as I studied her snowy hair in contemplation.
I was only twelve then, an awkward girl of little conscience, who would rather sit in her room and write dark poetry than meet her own grandmother. There was little she could offer me, or so I thought; an old woman, born in 1905, old enough to be my great-grandmother.
2007-12-11
04:40:31
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