dorothy

Wearing an old, frail dress, she stood there, on her knees, knitting a beautiful scarf. Her fingers, long, wrinkly, shaking while she performed the artistry. Her nails were trimmed short, maintained but one could see the soil beneath. Guess who'd gone gardening? Her hair was as black as soot, wavy, coarse, and swept-back, open. Her hands scattered, with lines and sunspots.

Her eyes, gleaming, but fossilized and mummified. They looked tired. The bags under them were dark and puffy. Her voice was husky, and quavering, cracking when she spoke. The surroundings creased when she let out a grin, teeth, perfectly straight and pearly white. Dentures. Her face was timeworn and wrinkled, but something about her smile made one think of sunburst yellow gorse, and fuchsia trees, and happiness. She had a fair complexion, but a wizened expression. Her lips were chapped, but full. Skin hanging loose, hunched back, stooping. She was jovial. She was cheerful. She was Dorothy.