Her shaking bones rippled to the surface of her unforgiving warn-out armor in which age has deprived it's elasticity. She forces the point of the needle through the tight fabric. In and out, up and down. Her uneasiness continued. Large canyons of folded skin piles its way with creases that give her depth, something worth a double take. My grandma sits, sewing in her tattered arm chair, and my eyes never leave her smooth textured hands that have lived a long life of their own.