Her skin spoke in calligraphy, generic quotes of life and strength. She resented only one of them. Her freckles now faded, perhaps jaded by the intrusion of ink. Freckles are for kids, she thought, like tricks and treats and happier times. Her hands were covered in truth, fitting loosely over knuckles. This is where her stories were told of aging and waging wars with the world. Touching her face she felt the wind that whittled fine lines on canvass. She heard the words that chiseled deeper. She remembered the sun warming her soul, leaving golden hues on arms and legs. Slowly she traced the scar on her left wrist, caressing it back and forth as if to heal the pain that still remained. Her skin spoke of all she was.