No story at all

Standing on my toes my calves began to burn, but I was lost in the wrinkles on her face. Each valley and crack felt like it told it’s own story, the kinds of stores that could be Hollywood movies. Her lips drooped to the left. Her gray hairs stretched like decades down her neck. Her long earlobes hung in gravity’s grip but her eyes told no stories at all while piercing into my soul for no particular reason. On my fifth grade school trip to the Nelson Atkins Art museum, I stood calves burning lost in a time I couldn’t imagine, led by her eyes that told no story at all.

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