The number game

And yet again, she plucked a strand of a  gray hair peeping through her hazel brown locks like a red signal, only that red signals were meant to halt people. That been said, she never looked in the mirror because whenever she did, she aged a little. Her knees would give up on the mere sight of the espirit wrinkles on the contour of her face, and she aged a little more. She never looked at that photograph from her wedding day that hung on the wall across the hall, because when she did, she aged a little.
She aged everyday, sometimes even twice a day.
But everyday she would hold herself from growing old. She let the numbers take a toll over her jaws, her eyes, her hair, her lips and the periphery of her body. However, her soul was carefully under an armour that couldn’t be torn through. The time had been on a pedestal for her curling horizons but somehow, her soul fed the time around her existence.
    She had stopped being inside the world, now the world was inside her. She was glad her soul didn’t need a mascara and that there was something she didn’t have to guard, even after all these years of respite. She had seen seasons changing every year, her favourite being autumn. She walked barefoot in the rain and made herself instant noodles and coffee afterwards. She had seen shooting stars twice, no thrice, and it was so unreal that she forgot to make a wish. She had driven 25 kms to catch her favourite tea stall, and had stopped in the way to collect daisies for grandma. She had seen the peace on her mother’s face when she passed away, it fascinated her before she broke into never ending fits of tears. She had seen her son passed out in a pool of his own vomit, constantly calling for some girl called Samantha and she had laughed. She had gone days without eating when her rabbit died, she didn’t even cook for the kids. She had fixed the flower in her daughter’s hair before she walked down the aisle in her white dress. She had walked out on her husband only to come back to his funeral, and she never left that house again. She had woven sweaters for her son’s daughter, she knew how much the little one loved pink.
She had a world inside her, the world that grew a little more with every time she aged. Her soul was so young that if she could paint it, she would paint it orange in the name of the morning sunrise sky. And she shed it like a snake’s skin, for each time she aged. And she never got old, atleast not old enough to walk barefoot in the rain again.
She had outgrown the number game, and she aged without getting old until they burried her beneath the willows last autumn.

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