Falling Forward On An Uphill Climb

It's the back of her hands. That's where she sees it the most. The papery, delicate, sunpocked skin, wrinkled even in repose. They look so old. Amanda never thought of her aunt as old, not even when she was a little girl. It was always Aunt Claire, the cool aunt, the fun aunt, the one with the long straight hair and groovy headbands, the huge record collection, jars of solid perfume and real wooden clogs from Holland. They spent endless hours hiking back roads, climbing trees, making up songs while skipping flat stones across the hidden pond on MacKenzie's Bluff. Claire taught Amanda about boys, let her experiment for hours with her makeup. The Lancome gift bags that came with purchase always ended up in her knapsack after a weekend visit. If it wasn't for Claire, Amanda never would've come to appreciate the importance of moisturizing year round or have mad money stashed with a spare key, hair elastic, and condom in the secret pocket of her wallet. The twenty dollar bill folded twice, tucked in a safe place. Claire called it bad date cab fare, for when you go to the bathroom, skip out the back door and hail a cab before the poor guy realizes you're never coming back. Always make a clean getaway. Rely on no one but yourself. Shore yourself up so that if anyone tries to tear you down- and they will- you'll always have your higher ground. The window is closing. Claire is far gone now. They had waited too long for this last trip and life got in the way. Bodies can only do so much when the mind starts to wander. Amanda sings every song she can remember as she brushes Claire's hair, watching her frail hands paint the air, trying to conjure up lyrics misplaced somewhere along their journey.