Waiting

Waiting

The dusty white knuckles jutted out dangerously, like they were about to break the skin. The long tapered fingers looked twisted and gnarled in the harsh light. Her hand had been frozen in time and movement brought sharp winces and pain clouded her eyes. The pale fingernails were ingrained with dirt that curved in ridges under the hardened yellow nails. During her teens, she had been a keen seamstress and her fine sewing hands had been wanted by many. She had wound gaudy masses of yarn, the jewelled colours of precious stones. Bright marshy eyes were focused on her circling hands and her brow was furrowed in concentration. She bit her top lip and breathed steadily through her nose. A wisp of hair distracted her vision as it fell across her eyes and she blew it away in a huff. Small red spots powdered her cheeks. Her small and slender feet tapped beneath her linen day dress. It was the colours of the heather in her winter garden and she longed to be there listening to the squirrel's useless conversations.

Years later, she looks out of the window trying to ignore the peeling paint sliding down the sides of the sash. The room is cold and she tightens her musty shawl around her arthritic shoulders. There is a fire in the corner of the room with a few lumps of greying coal softly smoking in the grate. Above the fireplace is a carriage clock. Solid, trusted, gold-plated ' a wedding present given to her many years before. It ticks softly in the room, disturbed only now and again by her shivers. The only piece of furniture in the room is the armchair she is sitting in. It is threadbare and matted with years of weary arms resting upon it. Behind her head is a spot of shine from dirty hair. The armchair had once been scarlet red, but had now faded to a russety brown which better suited the room. She falls asleep and descends into the earth.