Ghosts of Christmas past
She is the relic of a distant past, traveling this earth like a ghost. There are others about. You see them being trundled along, tottering alone on the pavement, making rare appearances in public. But there are many of them, this army of ghosts. They are the silent survivors, watching us, those they worked for: the future. There is no consolation in the people that run in front of them, the loud people, the people who laugh with open mouths and lipstick and tight pony tails. Their nails are long and not real. Their faces are pierced in a way that looks like punishment. It would have been better to have gone when people still cared, about wearing long coats and gloves, about having a straight back and being polite, about wearing skirts and court shoes, brogues and woollen jerseys.
She shuffles on, gets up, eats, sleeps, walks, watches, reflects, listens, cringes, and silently weeps inside. It’s a hard path this last one, and so lonely and high up. She wishes she could curl up in a snug hole never to wake again.