Paying Respects

The iron garden-gate was hard and wondrous to open. Ornamentation dated it.

Up the walkway then, into her stifling house, where she sat in her purple dress and parchment skin, saying what she thought her whole life had taught. She was too old to pity, too austere to embrace. The voice seemed to come from years ago.

Our minds assured us we would never grow that weird if we ever grew that old. Our minds were confident we could open the gate again, get away. The gate stood out there in advanced darkness. Inside, the seconds of her clock ate the minutes of our patience.