She is sitting in the sun, reading.
"She's almost a hundred" my father whispers as we make our way towards her.
I watch, fascinated. I have a teensy weensy obsession with those that reach that magical number.
She looks up as my father introduces us. She eyes me as keenly as I do her. She holds out a hand to me and I take it. She doesn't shake my hand like I expected her to, instead she merely holds it.
Her hand feels like the cliche of soft crepe paper and it feels nice. Her thumb rubs against the back of my hand and I wonder if she is marvelling at the texture of my hand, as I am hers.
I notice the book she is reading and it is one that I have read. I mention it and we chat about books. Is she young at heart or am I an old soul? I know the answer.
My dad says that we must go. She squeezes my hand once and relinquishes her hold.
I wish I had stayed.