The staccato clanking of the stick along the white picket fence entertained me as I walked home from school. I saw an old lady struggling with a bag of groceries.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” I offered.
“What a sweet child you are. Thank you,” she said handing me the bag.
As we reached the front door, she fumbled through her purse for the key.
“I hope I live to be as old as you,” I said.
“I hope you don’t.”
She found the key. As she unlocked the door I noticed the numbers tattooed on her arm.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” I offered.
“What a sweet child you are. Thank you,” she said handing me the bag.
As we reached the front door, she fumbled through her purse for the key.
“I hope I live to be as old as you,” I said.
“I hope you don’t.”
She found the key. As she unlocked the door I noticed the numbers tattooed on her arm.
