Epiphanies

17 | Fresh Mothballs

Bile slowly rises

Burning

As it ascends

Biting my lip

A futile attempt at blocking out pain

Unwittingly 

I draw blood

Swallowing hard

Willing the food to once more descend

I carefully grasp my great-aunt's 'heirloom' coat

Riddled with holes

Courtesy of Moths long gone

The ripe stench of musty decay clinging to my aunt's treasured relic is painful

Eye wateringly so

Looking in the mirror

I realize while fussing over the potent reeking I have failed to notice anything else

Including the source

Or passing of time

Gasping

A hand

Freezing cold

Brittle bones haphazardly jutting out from behind crêpe-like

Graying skin

Meets my eyes

Slowly

Tentatively

It reaches for my face

As though by magic

My face immediately begins to age

Until it matches the time weathered claw

Stepping back

I trip over my too-long clothes

Swamped as I seem to have shrunk overnight

I trip in the long forgotten fur coat

Collapsing in a pile of dust.

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