I wrote a short piece; it’s quite rough. I’m not sure whether or not to go any further with it. I blame the sudden inspiration on too much Edger Allan Poe (who may or may not be be turning in his grave at my feeble attempt).
Old woman, I see a world in your hands.
A perfect globe of emotion past and wisdom most forgotten – except in those fingers. What gnarled roots of experience and life! digging deep into things unknown but by those who listen. The cracks along your weathered surface cannot penetrate the base mysteries of such gloriously closed an existence – these deep crevasses, so bursting with memory as to seem frail: sweet trickery! Your bones are brittle as the cold morning frost, your skin taut and sagging; these twigs abandoned as cruelly as a tree sheds the limbs who bore fresh buds only seasons ago. What burdens have been borne by these palms, sunken and depressed beneath what colossal woes and pleasures. Your knuckles, as smooth and weathered as pebbles lying dormant on a depthless shore; how they creak with the mildest of motions, as the timbers of an old ship must cry wistfully for the shore before taking their final place beneath the waves. Oh, these fingers; clutching pitifully at air dried with time and thick with dreams of a life before, straining to find the last threads of peace between youth and beyond. But these movements, which so betray long years of control, have no effect on the cold-hearted breathing of the world, on those whose skin shows none of time’s ravages and whose limbs obey with spirited pleasure. And all the wisdom of these hands, these books – these libraries of life, is gone: locked away in a chest buried beneath all the stones of a thousand other lives. The library sinks below the surging tide of the world, and creaks no more.
Old woman, I saw the world in your hands.