Old Bones

Her bones creak as she turns the steering wheel. She dwells on her daughter-in-laws wine soaked voice saying, “You really shouldn’t drive anymore, Mom. You’re eye sight is dreadful. You could seriously hurt someone!” The advice wasn’t bad, she thought to herself. The years had brought many handicaps to Mary Magdalene, but she was convinced that she could find her way to the beach even if she was totally blind; darkness could not stunt the memory of the old winding roads leading to the beach.

Her usual visits brought back many memories of times spent in the water and on the sand. The sun often left a lasting impression of her visits; her shoulders went from a pale white that lay covered in the winter, to an exposed bronze gold. She would often go home with red cheeks, causing her mother to scold her for not applying another layer of sun sunscreen. But Mary Magdalene bore the changes gladly, for in them held the memory of sunny days and bright smiles. For the whole summer, she held the imprints of her swimming suit. When she would glide into the shower and strip the tattered swimming suit off her body the trace of it never left and she didn’t care.

Today the sky is grey and cold; the color of mourning. She is on a mission--a mission of fleeting breath, final goodbyes, and last words.  She pulls into the empty parking lot slowly, and finds a parking spot. The white lines are blurred through her ancient eyes, so she is careful not to pull the car in too far. She sits in the driver’s seat, for a moment, gazing at the stone wall that covers the view of the sand. The waves are frantically racing towards the shore. She knows it will be cold; too cold for old bones. Yet, she reaches her hand to the car handle; gentle pulls it and sets her bare feet on the pavement.  “Baby Steps”, she chants, enticing her aching feet to keep moving. 

Thank you for reading. I post a new narrative every Friday. 

Blessings!