She was impossibly thin, bent like a snow-laden twig, nothing but a soul and bones. Suspirations of love had become suspirations for breath.
Along she hobbled on her toothpicks, waving a papery hand in the air, sweeping ghosts off the sidewalk, uttering gibberish to the listening skies.
Then the tick of her cane would stop and she would summon a horrible, thick cough, that exploded from the depths of her.
She wafted her great stink; it was her, split into parts--underarms, her mat of hair, the greasy coat that she was lost in..
I'll never forget her eyes. They stood out like two gray coins. They would visit me that night, hanging above my bed, suspended in mid-air, swaying left, swaying right.
In my mind, I start to peel her away, one decade at a time.
The years fall away like husks, restoring her life, turning up the wick of her lamp. The gray hair gilded into gold; the skin turned smooth; her youth gleamed back...eighty, forty, thirty, twenty. Twenty! At twenty, how fresh and young!
Then the years swarmed back and the lamp guttered out the last glimmer of its light.
Who had she been? What of her children? Her thoughts? Did she hunger for youth? For lost love? Her name?
Her name I never knew.