Who is That Person?

My narrative focuses on portrait #4 of the old woman sitting in the chair. The narrative is told from her perspective:

   The grandchildren, God bless their sticky little fingers and unbelievably piercing voices, have just left. Silence again descends, though a slight ringing persists in my ears. Sinking into the antique rocking chair, I let the facade of durability that I put up for my family crumble. Faced with the sudden emptiness of my austere cottage and the haunting image staring back at me in the mirror across the room, I have no more strength to pretend. My heart wells with despair as I fail to obliterate the image of what I have become from my head. The mirror paints it all too clear (and the children, oh the children with their boundless energy and sense of invincibility! Have I really come to resent them too?).  The details are burned into my mind: the dips and craters that mark my face, erasing any traces of past beauty.  My mouth resembles the awkward beak of a sea turtle, while two furry creatures that look as if they have been ravaged by a fierce desert storm crawl over my skin. It takes me a moment too long to realize that they are my own eyebrows. No maidenly smile flits across my lips, no blush graces my cheeks. Instead my hair has become wisps of wool which I find in little clumps on my pillow in the mornings. The wiry frames hanging off my sharp nose feel as spindly and fragile as my bones, and probably would break just as easily. But the eyes. The eyes are what haunt me most; those forlorn globes peering from this unknown face are not mine. They simply cannot be. I am not that old, wretched creature I see.

   With trembling hands I pull the coarse robe I wear tighter around my body, attempting to ignore the curious lumps and jutting bones hidden beneath. I am afraid to see any more skin than I have to; the wrinkles did not cease with my face, but wreaked their damage on every surface. These days though, hiding is the least of my problems. I sit in this chair for hours, listening to life continue outside as children laugh and car horns blare. I sit in this chair, feeling the heat of the sun as it rises, waiting for the stars to appear so I can go back to bed. So I can continue this monotonous dance with mortality for yet another day. The throbbing solitude is broken only by the weekly visits from my family. I know they have better things to do than entertain an old woman; I am their chore now. If it were not for guilty consciences, they would not be here at all.

    Sighing, I shift stiffly in my seat, my gnarled hands grazing the rope holding my robe in place. I think of the struggle it was this morning to perform the simple task of tying that rope; the knot was nearly impossible because my fingers, plagued with arthritis, are constantly tripping over themselves. I realize I am a ragged heap of bones and out dated memories, really no more useful than the chair I sit in. A single tear slips from my lashes, racing up and over the moon craters of my face, sliding to the edge of my jaw and perilously hanging for a second before taking a suicidal plunge and disappearing into the oblivion.