She was old. Very old. Her elbow joints and ankle massaged with oil from crushed eucalyptus seeds, shone in the morning sun.
She reclined in the cane chair with a grunt and stretched her legs. Two thin, fair fingers of her's allowed the dense bun at the back of her head to unfold. It dropped open to its full length. Thin, white strands of hair then came to rest against the brown canes of the chair. She pushed back at the bridge of her spectacles and tried to focus. Her wrinkle rimmed eyes slowly narrowed upon the two long aluminium needles working to weave the neckline of a small, pink cardigan. Every time she pulled at the strand of the wool, the ball rolled at her feet and yet another stitch was added to the neckline. Her hands tirelessly worked with the needles, as the bangles kept clinking.
"Nice design aunty" I appreciated.
"For my daughter..." She smiled but her eyes still held narrowed at the tips of the working needles.
"But isn't it too small?" I queried sportingly. Considering her age, her daughter must be too old to fit into an infant's size.
A silence followed as my eyes traced down her old arms.
"Don't you know that all reincarnations happen from the infant stage..." she paused and looking away at a distance, mumbled, "...she will come...she will definitely come"
I followed her gaze and found a little girl, in a pink cardigan, chasing a butterfly amid hedges of white daisies.
I left the place without a word and looking up, tried to hold back the tears from leaping over the banks of eyes. The clinking of her bangles and the sound of working needles gradually fading in my ears.
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