She was small.
The top of her head only just
came to my chin -
the bow in her back had robbed her of inches.
Her eyes were deep,
entrenched in the spiderweb patterns
of soft, folded wrinkles that covered her cheeks, eyelids, forehead, lips.
But in her eyes was something that danced.
She reached out
And with gentle fingers took hold of my hand.
And I felt the silky velvet that the footsteps of her years had walked into her palms.
And she smiled like someone who has earned the right to do so, and she wished me a
Merry Christmas.
And then I woke.
Blinked at the tears running into my hair.
Closed my eyes and held onto the feeling
of her missing velvet in my hands.