The oldest things are the ones not meant to age. Testament to their time within this world, during which times they have seen the greatest rises and the most horrible falls, they stand stoic and rigid amid the background while among them the new rise and then, eventually, perish. There is a great agony in seeing something born only to see something self-destruct—which, in hindsight, is why Jesseble mourned.
She’d been there for some one-hundred years, an old woman sitting in the middle of town, across from the fountain where just at her feet the benches stood calm and without purpose. There were often people upon their surfaces—most particularly the oldest of ladies feeding the most spry of squirrels or the stupidest of pigeons—yet she saw no real reason for their existence. They were meant to serve—to bear upon their planks the weight of one’s conscience and body and even their mind and soul—and there they were built up, placed in, worn down and then torn down only for the process to start all over again. Was there no dignity in having a history, in waiting for what was to come to come, or was there simply no logic within the world where things were meant to be used once and never again?
To think that the world believed in such principles was a haunting one.
Would that rose have fallen from the Heavens, she wondered, had there not been a garden beneath it and a man within it to pick it up, or would it have simply fallen anyway, never to be lifted but only trampled?
In the wind that came and brought with it the most unbearable chill, Jessebele trembled.
The signs said it all.
She would never be someone’s home.