Misshapen (Micro-Fiction)

She sat in the shadow of a sycamore tree a ragged outline of a ragged life. Disjointed and angular, and all out of sync, she seemed darker than her surroundings submerged in her shawl. She fiddled with something that clickety-clacked like a train running over a track. Perhaps, it was her bony fingers clashing together; a pool of red something slowly extending across the grass.
I pulled a face without realising, and hoped she wouldn’t see. She did. Her eyes were better than she pretended. Just my luck! I hated her knowing I thought her odd, but what could I do? After all, she was knitting me a scarf, and she was my grandma.

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