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|Posted on February 26, 2012 at 10:55 PM|
by E. A. Irwin
Beatrice studied herself in the mirror, the revelation as unremarkable as the previous day. Those she lived among mentioned turning eighty was a milestone. Beatrice didn’t want to hurt their feelings; merely eighty years, not quite a milestone by any estimation.
When she arrived, the buoyant attitudes of neighborhood well-wishers welcomed her openly, despite a world war. From the vantage of her living room window on Sycamore Street in Middle America, she witnessed each passing era complete with its joys and strife of life affect her intimate world. Today would be no different for those residing on the streets where she lived, except for one.
Beatrice opened her closet and surveyed her wardrobe. What should she wear for a milestone birthday? Nothing suited Beatrice’s idea of how she should look, though through the years she adapted to this lifestyle’s ever-changing fashions. For personal reasons she thought it easier to fit in among those observed.
A blue silk dress, which highlighted the snowiness of her gleaming white hair, was chosen. While tucking stray curls that managed to escape her tidy chignon, she laughed at the women worried about their gray hairs and monthly visits to Stella’s Style Emporium for upkeep. This color adorned her since birth. She couldn’t understand the waste of time involved changing it to another hue.
The last of her affairs seen to yesterday, her observations finally ended. Her mission here completed in the same manner in which it began—without notice or interruption.
Beatrice readied herself for her grand night. One promised when she arrived as an onlooker. A night that would free her from life among her neighbors. As she slipped the dress down her slight frame, Beatrice realized this would be the last time she would feel the smooth sensation of fabric against skin.
Opening her window, she glanced at the heaven-filled night, knowing the next time she observed it would be from another realm. Beatrice rested on a chair while the moon set the twinkling prisms in her eyes alive, a reminder she was not of this earth and waiting for transport to her starship and home.
©E. A. Irwin
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