It’s an interesting feat when there is a storyteller involved. The little things that get missed, don’t anymore. From the slight smirk. To the secret grumbles one can make. Gets written down. Told and re-told for anyone who wants to listen. Because knowing this is how our history becomes history. But we won’t get into that. We will get into the story of the little old woman who lives down the street. And when we say little, it’s being ironic. In real life she is extraordinary tall. With chin length hair, that she brushes out to a point.
Imagine her how you will.
Her eyes are still forever young as her hands are not. She often sits in the middle of her patio, on the ground. Legs crossed. With scratched on pages coiled around her. Being held down by muddied rocks.
And this is her. In her glory. Being the one thing she only needs to be – a storyteller.
Written by A. Writes
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