Delicate - Freewrite

Freewrite (4).png

The lace she was working on was one of the most delicate things she had ever seen. The master of embroidery and all things needle art was sitting on her window, her back stooped from bending over her work for hours and hours at a time.
Her eyes were tired and the window did give the best light. Later, she would move over to the lamp in the room. the only room she was heating in the winter. It just took too much time to carry the coal the many flights of stairs up from the cellar.
There was a time when it didn't seem so difficult to climb up the stairs to her flat. But that was a long time ago. When her back was still straight and she was full of hope.
What possessed her to marry that guy later in life. Wanting to be married. Not wanting to be an old maid? Maybe.
The young girl, well, maybe a teenager would have liked to ask the old woman. But there are things you don't talk about. Not now, not ever.
The whole story would never be told. All the girl knew is that she called the old woman Auntie but she was an aunt related over so many corners that she never could remember who was who.
she came every week to her house. One day a week, Thursdays, was when the aunties came for laundry day. They stayed for dinner of potato salad and horse sausage. That was not so delicate.