She lay looking at the ceiling of her room. Wallpaper, as old as she was and gradually abandoning the wall, hung down in strands like branches of a weeping willow. She watched as breaths of wind, finding ways through cracks in the ill-fitted window, shifted the paper back and forth. It was almost as though they were gray and blue fingers waving a slow ‘good-bye’ in regularity with the beating of her heart.. thump-thump…thump-thump

The bed creaked as she shifted from her back to her stomach, and she looked at the tips of her own hands. Short jagged nails hugged the top of fingers small but sand-paper like from years of work. Several years ago she noticed that when she touched the soft face of her child, the child winced. A mother’s hand was supposed to soothe a child. Hers were too rough to give comfort. More tears fell slowly down, making gentle plops on the soft blanket.

Sky-diving. That’s what she should try..