...Her senses had started to fail her. There was a frustration to start with, a fury at the onslaught of time, but what could she do?

The cataracts had claimed most of her vision, her fingers had become so thick and clumsy that the needles could no longer sing. No more creating joy for the neighbouring families, with such little babes in need of warm clothing.

Finding joy in what remained seemed the only way, training what senses remained she took to walking the moors during the night. She could hear the owls gliding in for the kill, the soft whup, and the tiny end scream of rodents.

Then a strange magic started to happen, the owls took to watching her, guiding her, as she wandered. Her first words to them had been but words to soothe her mind but in time she spoke to them familiar. In her mind she had passed from old age to the freedom of their wings...

Painting such old skin, I thought of my Nan a lot. She died a few years ago, and I don't think I'll ever be able to not cry when I think of her. She was a never old in her mind, till the end. And I miss her dearly.

I'm sorry if that is too much information, but I needed to write it.