My skin is thin. Thin-skinned, I bruise easily, mostly on my shins. You look like you’ve been in the wars, people used to say. Yes. I do. I have the body of an old woman. I’m strong but battered. Not pretty. Not that I ever was. A ‘passable’ woman, as the poet says. Neat. I aspire to neatness in dress and aesthetic. No longer nubile. I manage. I have my work. I live for it and for him. It is enough. Till I can shuffle off this corpus. Bless it. It has carried me far. So far.
The sun is trying to come out. Do.
