read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

November 9, 2011
Her mouth pulled down at the corners in a way no living human could imitate,my grandmother looked so tiny in her silver box with her airy lilac dress and pretty orange flowers.

"It's a doll," I thought. "A sculpture. There's nothing human--dead or alive--about this."

I could not accept that this was once a person, that this had ever been more than simple pottery clay molded into a withered body.

It was her hands, her frail, sunken hands, that convinced me. In those vein-mapped fingers was the loss of life her face couldn't convey.