The woman sits in the chair by the window until she is moved back to the bed. In the bright spring daylight her hair is snowy and skin like a wax dummy, crudely carved with tools too sharp. Her head is in constant motion as if agreeing with sentiments no-one else can hear or perhaps the ruminations of her own mind, mulling over a lifetime that draws to a close. On her dresser stand many photographs including a black and white wedding portrait. The bride stands tall and proud with a bouquet of newly opened roses, glowing beside a man a head taller than herself. When my eyes flick between the two, the woman and her youthful self, I understand why people call time a thief. It steals so much, just slowly, until the last grain falls from our personal hour-glass and we are reclaimed by the Almighty.