When she smiles her crows' feet spread; deepen. Her face is unevenly patched with talcum sometimes, old with her age's worth of experience, mapped out like the sky. The lines are words, hinting the existence of secrets behind them. She speaks with her voice so slow, her walk so deliberate, her expressions so knowing. She touches your hand and your heart with her stories. And sometimes I don't understand her; but her conversation is like a dance; a waltz; she leads you with her eyes to smile back as she relates the story of a friend she used to know. Whose face she has forgotten.
And as she asks you if you have ever had any friend whose name you know but not her face; you guiltily nod. After a while you wonder if she wonders if you'll ever forget her. Because you wouldn't. Not her face with the uneven talcum patches. Not her voice so slow. Not her walk so deliberate. Not her expressions so knowing.
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