Agatha

Agatha bears the weather of her years, charcoal lines contour the wrinkles — demarcating her age like the rings of a yawning tree. She sits somewhere outside of the present moment, locked away in her mind or in a fleeting memory. A stare that sinks into a dusty dark, unengaged with anyone who passes glances.

Agatha doesn’t often remember who Agatha even is, her mind adrift. Little by little synapses begin to dim. Each day more familiar faces become lost in the fog.

But sometimes she does remember — the will-o-wisps who would whisper and kiss her on the cheek in sleep.