Skin

Ninety-year-old bare skin is crepe, crossed with turkey’s wattle and if you lightly bump or grip too tight it bruises like an evil has been done. My mother hates that her arms, her neck, her décolletage look this way.

 When I hug her I can see Mum’s scalp through the thinning, flyaway hair now worn short, as her fingers can no longer manage hair ties. Mum was always proud of her hair so she hates that too.

Worse still is the oedema, the fluid retention that merges her ankles and calves into one inflamed whole.  Anyone would hate that.

Photo by Danie Franco on Unsplash