She has a stilted story to tell.
The saga weighted with normalcy of life.
A champion trip across the US, in a yellow and rust Volkswagen bug, as a robust teen.
She failed to continue her education beyond High School, she mumbles. "Damn them," (to no one in particular.)
The charming monkey baby on her back somewhere "warm."
Combination of putting out fires and striving to project forward in the evolution of her life.
The photos actually help her to complete the Circle, she declares bravely.
She remembers who she was, is, and may very well be until her dying day.
All of the people in the process of the years past, whether she recalls their names, helped her to mold HER.
She recognizes the Plan, the Big Picture, what everything meant, in retrospect. Or not.
Why they were with her, or against her. From her side of the kaleidoscope, she admits.
We pry the pictures off the album sheets, tearing in the process, as she laughs aloud, with a bit of a devilish grin.
She flings them into the fire. One - by - one. Sharing the story, seemingly proud and tall (as erect as one can be at 93.)
The tale propels out of her wrinkled lips, facing me, with a tear dribbling off the chin's edge, sheepish smile, or sagging shoulders, then...
Toss.
In it goes. Gone in a flash, like the sunset zapped-away on the horizon.
Some float sideways, down to her feet, unattended.
At the finale, the last spine of the pile of albums lands askew. Tattered and faded from the recesses of the bookshelf, a massive sigh projects from her.
A much bigger exhale than I would have dreamt possible from a shrunken frame.
She reels a bit from the effort out of the sofa, slightly indented from her body.
A jig, yes, a dance, bobbled and swayed her across the floor and to the kitchen sink.
She grips the edge firmly, and throws out a yowl!
"I did it!"
Call me, at Sorted Affairs, to get relief from your PASSED, clinging life.
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