By Lionel Walfish
She is very old.
The lines that crease her sunken cheeks stretch parchment-like across the bones of her dry, sun-burnt face.
Her body lurches with each tentative probe of a wooden cane and, holding on to the iron bar of a tattered buggy with her other hand, she moves forward in a lopsided manner.
She smells bad.
The old black sweater and skirt that never leave her body reek from months of unwashed neglect. Her shoes, sandal-like in appearance, slide dangerously under her fragile frame as she hobbles from one sidewalk dustbin to another, hoping to find a discarded treasure to add to her collection.
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