She entered the elevator after my grandma and I. I was shy, and looked down as I said hello. If I saw her face again I would not recognize it. But her hands, her hands were where my eyes rested, and they still stand out to me.

The rest of her was all wrinkles. All sagging, all stooped. But that wasn’t what made her old. Anyone can hunch, and even I, at eighteen, have wrinkles. It was her hands that made her old. It wasn’t that they were wrinkled– the skin was stretched tight and smooth, a mottled and discolored skin on shriveled claws. View Full Post