She sits on a wooden porch in a chair that learned its comfortable shape over decades of fireside conversation. Her hair, still dark, dark with a swatch of silvery gray that drapes across the top of her head— an honorary sash, life-bestowed. Her cheeks, still round. Her eyes, still green and wondering. Her fingers, still short as they light a long wooden pipe. With a flick and a hiss, she ***** sweet tobacco smoke and breathes out secrets in languages spoken only by those who understand the trees. She sips bitter tea from a clay cup and names each of the birds that fly into her view. She grows berries just for them on vines that twist about unsuspecting beams and rails. A metaphor, she suspects. She hums familiar melodies to herself and cracks a wrinkled smile. The world, as she knows it, is only ever waiting to be enjoyed.