Morning

Memi was getting older, and she loved it. Wrinkles crept through the corners of her eyes, finger joints begged to stop bending every time she gripped the handle of her teapot, and the balls of her feet wept and ached as she shuffled around on hardwood floors, barefoot as always. Her husband often commented jokingly on her callused heels and toes, but lotions and files couldn't soften or scrape through the thick tough skin. Even if it was possible, Memi wouldn't appreciate it - soft heels were no guard against knobby stone walkways and woodchip-covered grounds.

She could remember the woodchips of her New England lawn, where they covered the roots of the oak tree in the front yard, and her brother used to chase her around that tree in games of tag. It was dead now, burned to black carbon in a fire that also claimed the family home. The whole lot then moved out west, where eventually, as her siblings grew old and found families of their own, they spread out north and south along the Pacific coast. Only Memi stayed behind in the original Western house, Her parents had long since passed away.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside the curtains and smiled at the morning sun, ready for another old day.