She never spoke but sang to me and blew into her hands.
Whatever she hid there I never knew. Cupped in the hollow like a small flame kept alive. Bent over it to see heerself mirrored in the dark. It glowed like embers through her fingers, but I never knew what it was.
A bird, I wondered, or a winged bug, and whether its shadowy light meant it had flown away.
Until one day, opening her fist, she showed me a burned-out cinder, a tiny corpse of self.
___________________________________Poem shaped as a riddle. Answer: old age.