(*photo credit to Nattu*)
Her hair, spectacular orange, looked like fire. It was long and wavy and fierce: strands and strands of it, wild and unwashed, sweeping across her forehead and covering the pillow. The irony, I guess, was that there was so much life in it: so much life, and yet she lay, still and frail and confused, savaged by the brain tumour. Dying.
She was beautiful: big, doe-like eyes that I was sure once sparkled. Soft, round cheeks that weren't always tinted grey. Plump, rosy lips. The kind of woman my Grandma would have described as an english rose. She was beautiful. Beautiful. And broken.
I think about her often because she was only five years older than me, and because she was the first person I'd come across who was dying and looked, well... Like she was dying. There was no hope or vigour, no odds that she was going to surpass, no battle she was going to win.