Magdalena

She sits surrounded by the trophies of a full life. Picture frames, china dolls, and mother’s drapes; the postcards sent to oneself from some other world: “wish you were here”. Magdalena feels charcoal tears scald her cheeks; cheeks cut and scarred by Time’s bloody scythe. She no longer recognizes the hands that traveled the contours of her lovers’ bodies. Arthritis had claimed her gnarled tribute long ago.
Gasping, she lifts her tired limbs from that leather coffin. Magdalena’s knees burn while she limps her way towards an antique mirror in the center of the room. It was a gift from a past admirer, one of many who used to lie down in her wake. Avoiding the accusing stare from her youthful portrait on the wall, Magdalena forces herself to go through the looking glass. Standing face to face with her grandmother is enough to confirm that treasures fade. Her cross becomes heavier and the ground floods out from underneath.
“This is not my life… Take me back…”