With a delicate voice, 

almost like glass, 

always sharing stories. 

Stories you can see through the wrinkles on her face. 

Wrinkles like a map, 

a map of intertwining cities, places, and people. 

Stories of her family members, her mother, father, and siblings, 

most who have passed but alive in her mind.

Stories of her old friends and her life when she was younger.

Reciting the stories while she sits on her favorite couch,

the couch so old yet worn in perfectly from everyone who has sat on it. 

She sits there with her eyes so blue and wide almost like a frosted lake, 

smelling like cigarettes and perfume, 

a strong perfume that reminds me of rain and flowers. 

She ends her stories and she smiles, 

reminiscing on memories she will never forget.