aging woman - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Aaron hated to think it, but his mother was an unpleasant woman. She was not overly old, but her body had aged passed her years so much so that she wore the wizened features of an old crone. The occasional strand of her once golden hair could still be seen though the lifeless grey mane that limply framed her aging face. Her forehead was wrinkled by many peaks and trenches - caused by years of consistent scowling - which unflatteringly crowned eyes that permanently harboured a disdainful glare, shadowing their beautifully unique shade of blue. Her entire face seemed drained of any signs of joy and amusement, instead her frumpy cheeks told a tale of regular displeasure.
At 1: Crawling on the soft carpet, surrounded by her loved ones. Clapping and cheering for accomplishing the simple task. Food dribbles down her velvet skin, the wet food sliding down the bib like slime oozing from a monster, yet coos are made and only a small taunt is given.
At 15: She walks fine, and in fact she swaggers. Her attitude, behaviour, composure radiates confidence, maybe too much confidence. Without asking, food is brought to her yet no thanks or gratitude is expressed. No one cares whether she is eating, all are pre-occupied with their own business- bills, work, money.
At 25: An independent woman. Food is made by herself, yet it is barely a sustainable diet; ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tasty... She has become a robotic mouse, waking up, driving, working, eating, sleeping, the routine is maintained for many years. No-one recognizes her achievement unless she has graduated, married or done something spectacular. Everyone is trying to outshine one another - 'trivial' achievements don't matter.
At 45: She coos at the child cradled gently in her arms. She herself looks different- the crazed robotic look is not there and neither is the confidence at fifteen; she is tired. Her eyes are weary and swollen, her feet ache from the demanding jobs and the child's wails act like sirens in her head. But, only love seems to be evident, the gentle touch on the baby's sweet moist hair, and the caring eyes never blinking at the child for fear they would miss this precious moment.
At 75: She is almost crawling once again, if not for the worn wooden stick she would crawl on the cold, hard ground. No-one is around her, the parents who cheered for her and provided have long left the world, yet even her kids whom she had provided for are not with her either. Each is too busy, occupied with their own lives they neglect their loving mother. The food tastes horrible, inedible.
At 80: Gone. No longer in this world, yet her grave surrounded by her kids.