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The glow of the fire warms my legs as I search the faces of my companions for some sign of hope. I look first at Courage, but he looks down. Then, I steal a glance at Beauty, but she runs away.
Patience is just across from me rocking back and forth; he's too busy with the twiddle of his thumbs. At last, Kindness meets my gaze, and returns a smile. "Go back," she whispers, but I don't know where.
I spread my arms and legs out angelically in the snow, but I am no angel. I only know how hard it is when no one believes in you.
The signs are obvious; I follow the red line.
New York Fashion Week: Fix Up, Look Sharp
sometimes you have to go alone
I am one hundred and eight years old, and some days I act accordingly, all 108 years showing in my stride and in my gaze.
Other days I pick another age. I am 7, inches of snowfall; I am 12, on the soles of each shoe; some days I am just born, seeing the world for the first.
But when picking an age, I make sure to ignore my waist size, my thread count, or the vintage on last night's bottle of Burgandy.
My journey is now reaching new heights and new speeds; it has me frightening myself and falling down, looking through goggles and learning how to snowboard.
