The old lady bought moldy strawberries, wondered around the market, met a few other wrinkled and silver-haired friends. The old lady ate a cookie, drank a cup of tea, recounted few bits of irretrievable past, blurred her glasses with a few salty drops of lachrymal glands secretion, and then trembled on her cane on the way back home.
The lift didn’t function, strange thing, it had never stopped before, so she proceeded on the stairs. Halfway up she almost bumped into a man carrying a tiny floral suitcase identical with hers, limited collection of the 60’s, her wilted youth years. Her breath paused for a second. She climbed further with a slightly accelerated pace, felt a twinge in her chest.
Her door was opened; she faltered on the hall’s vintage carpet, and then moved towards her bedroom while shouting her cat’s name. She noticed the drawer in which she kept her wedding pearls and her beloved dead husband’s wedding ring had been taken out and emptied.
A flood of blood began to rise up, targeting her senescent matter. White, gray, random selection. She could feel it, the trickling inundation of a lifetime barricade of sanity and health, but she impatiently murmured again her cat’s name.
She observed as if through mist gentle gusts of wind blowing the ivory voile curtains. She went out onto the balcony and saw her cat hanged on the drying rack. Her green, big and translucent eyes, wide opened. Her limbs, stiff.
The sluice of her first center of existence, the brain, had broken at precisely the same moment when her second center, the heart, had succumbed to stillness. The last gaze of the old lady reflected her very last thought:
“Such a clear sunny day of late spring…to die for.”