Hanna woke early, pushed her feet in to her sheep skin slippers, soft against her bunions.
On the stairs she always came down backwards now, since the fall.
At the kitchen counter, she rested her forefinger on the edge of the loaf, using the digit as a measure. She’d hook a finger over the rim of her coffee cup too, stop pouring when the heat reached her nail. Damn cataract operation couldn’t come soon enough.
After breakfast she walked to the lake, her stick sinking into the mud, grit rolling under her boots. At the mud flats she stopped, looked over the water, breathed in the day.
She missed the details, but she knew the sun twinkled like fairy lights on the water, that the birds sang out, defending territory and new broods.
Spring was on its way and it was going to be a good one.