Memories are hidden within the creases of her skin. Her face is a wall which may fold, but will never crumble or collapse. She hides more than what you think in the knots of her grey curls, or buried beneath the soles of her sensible loafers. People say that eyes are the windows, but she has placed her windows in the frames of her glasses, and always has the curtains drawn. Photographs are all I have to go on ¬– when her skin was tight and dewy, when her hair was like corn, her eyes unveiled. She stands in the photos full of pride, face directed at the lens of the camera, armed in pantsuits. Now she is armed in beige tights, by the perfumes of a doughy baker, and by closed lips.