The old woman staggered down the road like a bloated, old lame heifer. She walked towards the old wooden house that, like her, was old, tired looking and had seen better days.
The front door creaked when she moved it, just like her joints on cold days. The windows squealed on windy days. She’s cold and old with nowhere but home, nothing but a hollow shell of what she used to be. And beneath the surface, nothing but a weak frame, like her house nothing keeping it together but a weak frame.
Her eyes glassy and faded portrayed nothing of how she had lived.
Her grey hair and wrinkles show nothing of the eccentric person she once was.
Her day was done now, the dusk is coming, her frail hands clutching the things she loves like the last rays of sun appear to grab at the Earth for a few more minutes, seconds even. It’s a fighter, like her and like the house where she died. That day.