Terror of old age
Croched on the drippy drab, bleak plateform of Paddington, sharing a rolly with her shivering boyfirend. This Sunday night is a commune for the drunk and hopeless, and for the first time, we're not the worst off; we don;t even look that bad by comparison.. Latenight, cold foreigns blank us —a few are looking for buses. We begin spreading our wore down ,tired arms and legs alll other the sold floor, amusing ourself with the stumbling silhouettes wrestle with the escalator.
Thsi is when I first saw her! She dragged herself up the steps with the final of her enegry. Her pink sweatpants have seen better days , and her feet are ratteling around in school shoes. She cleared areas of the station just by walking through them. On her face you could see the lines that had been worn out by tears.. If I had not known betterI could have swared she was a ghost.. I stared at her darken visiage and imagine all the thinking she must have been through ; that I cna hardly bear to move , and i'm just is making my way home to my warm house.
She put out her shaking, trembling hand.
I ook though my purse but their is nothing but lint.
The darkeness of the city engulfed her racked, miserable frame.
I search around to see if I have any other matches left. We sit staring at the sky just wishing we could see some star so we had something to talk about.. Eveythign seems to be in slow motion, the world seems to be waiting.
She's back again.. Her decrepid hand, tremberling with old age, had come back.
She carefully placed a shinny pound coin Inot my lap and said, " get something warm in ya. God bless you."
The station eat her up again before we could make sense of what had happened .