Tenses and a better title were giving me issues, so help would be appreciated (along with any other comments)
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She had been absently brushing patterns into the sweat of her icy glass, rocking on her ankles to maintain the rhythmic, creaking music of the front porch swing. Turning to the old woman beside her, sunk heavily into the weathered cushions, she had restarted the conversation of a previous hour. “I’d feel so much better if someone was here with you,” the granddaughter said. Cooking and climbing stairs, showering and venturing to the backyard garden, leaving the suffocating stillness of the sitting room couch. All were silently, imploringly, forbidden by the gentle concern of the young woman.
Old shoulders had tugged free of the swing to emphasize protest, and aged eyes had turned to meet those vibrant and concerned in the face of her granddaughter. Her indignant huffs and sighs were dismissed when slender fingers, still cold from the drink, reached out to massage the wrinkled hands in the lap next to her. “I don’t want you to get hurt when no one is here,” she had said earnestly, then had assured, “Just until an assisted living opens up.”
The girl had smiled, sweet and tentative, inviting approval without hope or expectation.
A child’s pleasured cooing had averted her attention, and she had unconsciously squeezed her grandmother’s hand tighter as she called, “Baby doll! Come away from the street!” A wrinkle of anxiety had emerged in her young forehead.
The toddling great grandbaby had supported her unstable feet by the post of the mailbox and grinned at her chiding mother before wobbling back, falling lightly on her diapered bottom and pudgy knees as she made her way toward the familiar skinny façade of chipped white paint.
Now alone and unmoving, she sat on the couch, gazing at the same suffocating surroundings. The weight of permanence settled in her muscles, too great to move under. In every weary bone of her body was the affirmation that time would never slow down or revert. Heavy hopelessness blurred with an undirected, futile indignation. The feelings swelled and swirled inside her, demanding a stop to the inevitability her life was unyieldingly pulled towards.
An abused screened door timidly crept toward the porch, squeaking and raising the alarm.
The grayed and frayed cuff of a sweatshirt fell lightly onto the soft hand, uneven with veins, which clutched the doorknob.
Slowly, slowly, she lowered a tennis-shoed foot to the porch. She took a moment to discern the solidity of the earth under her foot and the stability of her own self before delicately bringing her other foot to join its mate. Finally firmly grounded, she stretched cautiously for the handrail of the porch steps and released her safety grip on the front door.
Completely reliant, she leaned into the railing and crept down with desperate precision.
The driveway stretched out in front of her, as void of any support or aid as Mt. Everest to a mountaineer or a great desert to a camel-rider. A deep breath filled her lungs, lifting the settled weight of despair. She released her safety grip on the rail, and inched her foot forward.
The old woman supported her unstable feet by the post of the mailbox. A smile of secret triumph wrinkled her features as she peered at the ads leaning in the rusted box.
