How old is your soul?

As they wheeled her in, the flames licking her bare feet and colouring them black them for the last time on earth, he broke down and wept. In huge gulping sobs, because the unfilial often cry the hardest, he cried till the earth shook, he cried till he buckled at the knees which were too weak to lift the devastated soul. Melodrama is not confined to the screen shots of filmed tragedies. Her waxen features accentuated the sallowness of her cheeks. But she. She was flawless, made-up. Pretty. The dead often are. And atop her perfect nose, her glasses sat silently, patiently for the inevitable. He feared that the glass would give out under the heat, that it would scatter asunder and that it would hurt. Painful, how painful it would be. On bent knees, all he could do was cry for his dead mother.
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