Seventy
She watched herself in the mirror. An old woman stared back, her emerald eyes dark, their luster lost. The once cherry colored hair had faded now, a silvering grey replacing it. It was long; she hadn't cut it for some time now. She watched as her reflection lifted one old hand, the bones obvious beneath the pale skin. How long ago had it been since this body fought a real battle?
How long had been since she had listened?
People would come by every once in a while, dropping food and gifts. She would nod to them, always wearing a warm, sincere smile, and say a word of thanks. They never stayed, though. They never thought that she might want company, out there in her garden, watching the days pass. It never passed through their minds that it was even possible.
But now she wanted it.
Just to hear a human breath, the comfortable silence, their presence. No fear, no tension, simply bliss, like two friends or lovers.
Lovers. How long had it been since she had loved? An eternity? Or a day? How long had it been since she had seen Sasuke's face, had heard Naruto's laugh, Kakashi's pathetic excuses. Ino's eyes, Hinata's stutter, Kiba's bark. How long had it been?
Was this what everyone had avoided? This emptiness, knowing that there is no one there?
But they would rather be alive, wouldn't they? Even if they had to grow old and know beyond their years, it was alright if they were with friends, wasn't it?
The woman in the mirror sighed, her eyes tired. Was this what she deserved?
What about the girl in the picture?
That girl had spirit, spunk, something to live for. She looked at the tattered photo in its weathered frame, the cracked glass sending cobwebs across it. Was that photograph why she know lived in this house? Why had she saved it?
It was a living memory, a reminder. Sometimes she hated it, sometimes she loved it.
But mostly she mourned it.
She mourned for the occupants, the dead ones, the ones that weren't in it, yet shared the same fate. The girl in the middle, she mourned her too, regretted every battle that she hadn't fought, hated every one she did. If only she had turned back then, had left.
But she was too proud.
They say that the meek will inherit the earth. What about the ones considered weak? Would they? And if they did, where was that world?
Apparently it was forgotten, just like the photo and the graves and the wind and the trees and the legends and the memories.
She was getting old.
The mirror was evidence of that.