The Escape

 When autumn sorted itself out and decided to arrive, the woman had some thoughts. Mostly, she was tired of examining her own aging, marking the entrance of each wrinkle, of each new dark mark that made a home on her face. Signs of deterioration. Signs of death.

    She'd tried all the potions. Why not? After all, they were there. It cost her little, on average, to try them.

    Except it cost her more, in the end. 

    Every little examination until she was too tired to examine any longer.

    She stopped then. All the potions. To her horror, she saw that they had worked, a little. They had offered her some grace. Still, she was too tired to visit the witch for such things. There were other needs to visit witches for, at her age. Other potions to take. Other pains to ease.

    And then, a curious thing occurred. Without the potions, she had no cause to examine herself so closely. No need to see if they had worked. No need to pour over her face, while hoping correction. She just was as she was, and that was all there was. So oddly freeing.

    It was a most curious realization, that wrinkles never mattered, death couldn't be fixed, and perception never meant what anyone wanted it to mean. 

    She left herself at the mirror, and didn't think about it anymore. She had work to do. 

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