Here comes Margaret toddling and
wobbling down the street and you
wonder if you're the only one who feels
she should be wearing heavy workboots
to anchor her firmly to the ground on
windy days. She is as light as a promise
made in bad faith. Even her smile is
lopsidedly tenuous hovering undecided
on her deeply wrinkled face so narrow
it crowds her features. She approaches
and you wait, deliver a smile as the
signal awaiting a conversation. And as
you pass small talk back and forth
grateful the wind is not too harsh this
day she turns slightly sideways and you
gasp at her reed-thin silhouette, her white
strands of hair parting way with her scalp
in a bid to live a life of its own. Her voice
soft and tremulous reveals the uncertainty
of her thoughts but there is communion
between you, the older robust woman and
the younger woman of frail existence.
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