A Chain of Red Yarn
Her name was Irene. I remember her smile, the way it triumphed ov er the lines on her face and pushed them into submission. I remember studying her face, and wondering what circumstances collaborated to produce in her body the wrinkles and creases owed to 86 years of life. Hardships from lack of money? Anxious thoughts that wrung their wiry hands across the smooth surface of her life, rewriting innocence with experience? Perhaps heartbreak over love lost or unreturned? Maybe hours in the sun, working the land in exchange for food? So much simmered beneath the surface that I could not penetrate. Memories--guarded and treasured--kept silent, as if by sharing them, those intangible souvenirs would slip from her grasp, and join the mounting pile of things over which Irene had relinquished control. Oh, how her world had grown small! When did the possibilities in life stop opening before her, and begin closing? She