I remember when I first met her. She was sitting outside of her little run down, banana colored, house at the end of Sliver Avenue. The one covered in moss and ivy, and littered with leaves from the innumerous trees on the property. She was staring so intensely at the ocean that I almost worried that if I were to tap on her shoulder, she'd drop dead of a heart attack, but then she'd turned her head toward me as if she sensed my presence, and tapped the arm of the rocking chair next to her, gesturing for me to sit. I sat without a word. I'm glad I did, because if I hadn't, I'd never have this story to share.
"I'm Margaret, as I'm sure you know. Or Old Death. That's what the kids call me anyways." She'd whispered. She always whispered. "I've always hated that nickname. Cruel." She brushed her long grey hair behind her ear.
"I'm Claira. I live next door. Just moved here fom Oregon. Wanted to introduce myself."
"And I'm glad you did, darling. Nobody talks to me anymore. They all give me cautious looks as if they're scared that I'm going to do something horrid. Lord knows." She sighed. "Waiting for my husband to come home. He works at the paper mill a few streets over."
