crone mutterings

There are spring night breezes moving the curtains in this house. Half-grown black kitten with constellations of single white hairs across her shoulders, curled up in my lap, reaches up to touch my face with her paw. The veins wander blue highways across the backs of my hands. Silver strands frizzle in the fall of my hair over my glasses. Bones in my wrists and ankles surprise me when I see them again and again, ribs and shoulder blades, and the points of me where there ought to have been curves. I'm learning to live in this strange old Froud faery's body.