Every new morning always seemed to her like a hill, getting steeper each day. “It’s because I’m getting older. I’m on my way out.” She told herself—and it was true. “One of these days,” she thought to herself, “I’m not even going to be able to get up in the morning.” Her life trudged on, day after day of meaningless mornings, before her premonitions proved true. Then, one August morning, bright with poppies and daffodil drunken with the new sunlight, she opened her dull, grey eyes, worn out with age, swept the covers to the side, and tried to swing her feet to the ground. Her legs turned into cinderblocks plastered to the sheets . Her face curled into a scowl and used all of the might left in her frail, weak body, to move her legs, but was unable . “Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down.” Her heart raced and sweat droplets formed on her freckled forehead as she slowly realized it was the beginning of the end. Her mind went back to happier days, when her legs were her very own prized possession. She was a champion, the best collegiate sprinter of her time, known by everyone who knew anything about sports. She glided over the track and leapt over the competition like it was a daily activity. Oh, how her pride and joy of yesteryear now turned out to be her ticket to the afterlife, the single terrifying moment of her life. Her very legs have failed her, she thought, as she lay helpless in bed, thankful for any minute she was alive.