An Old Woman

She is seventy-three.
It is easy to tell, with her dark eyes sunken in on her face, antique, aged with creases and wrinkles. Her hair shines a glimmering silver, worn long and braided. She’s thin, her wrists bony and fingers long and elegant.
Her hands show her past; soft like worn in leather. Scars from this. Marks from that. Her ring of white gold is dotted with scratches and dents; each bruise and bump is accounted for. It still is adorned on her finger, even after being left behind and widowed.
She was a beautiful bride. A beautiful child. A beautiful mother.
She holds a picture frame, closely examining it. She’s seen it many times before, though possibly not much more than a glance. Within the mahogany frames there lays a young woman, smiling. Her eyes and hair are bright in the sunlight, surrounded by grass and the trees. It is a perfect setting. A man is with her, giving her an expression of happiness. It seems as if he’s gained the whole world. They lay in the grass. They look so happy. They were happy. She still is happy.
She stares intently at the beauty enclosed by ebony frames. She slowly, carefully sets it back down on a table.
She misses him so dearly.