An immortal goddess of a woman. She walks down a winding staircase, a silky red carpet laid out smoothly beneath her dainty feet. Her lips are painted a similar rouge to the brilliant red spill of curls climbing down her neck. Dressed like a princess, many will stop to comment on her picturesque frame. Absolutely beautiful. Stunning. Now she walks with an aid that once upon a time wasn’t needed. Back in her prime. Oh, how I would have loved to see her prime. The days where nothing could stop her. The time when pain was not real, only a nightmare while she slept.

The black and white photography does her milky white skin no justice. The framed elegance takes the life out of her sparkling green eyes that very closely resemble speckled robin’s eggs. The picture on the wall has captured her grace correctly, however. She holds her head up high and smiles politely. She can’t be human, for they don’t release radiance at this rate. Her grace is everlasting, and at ninety-two she is living proof beauty does exist in this world. She is beauty at its finest, and she is my grandmother.