By Tricia Lowther
I lift my hands from the bedspread and the shock stops my breath. Thick veins, thin skin, liver spots. Last night I celebrated my fortieth birthday. This morning I am eighty.
Through an open window, the scent of lavender drifts in, and I watch as a small white feather floats to the floor. The thick, purple carpet wouldn’t be my choice. What have I done?