The old woman sews steadily by the dimly lit candle as she rocks slowly back and forth; back and forth. Bent over, intent on her work, she barely looks up as she moves her hand gracefully up, then down, the needle sliding through the fabric and dancing with the thread. The light flickers and casts eerie shadows upon the walls, but the old woman does not seem to notice. She hears no sound, sees no sight other than what lies before her. Creak. Crack. Creak. Crack. The rocking chair keeps the constant rhythm between the floor boards. A coffee mug sits empty upon the wooden table beside her, containing nothing but cold stains. And on and on she continues her work, never losing her focus.

She does not hear me approach.

The cell phone rings.

The neighbor’s radio blares.

The screeching of the brakes as another car whizzes past the window reminds us both of a whirlwind world just outside the door.

“It is not like it used to be, is it?” she softly asks me.

“No Gram…times have changed.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what happens. Change is a part of life”

Silence.

Creak. Crack. Creak. Crack. The rocking chair continues its lullaby.

The clock mounted on the wall continues its chime.

And the car that races by the window continues to call out in a screeching madness.

“It’s not like it used to be, is it.”

Her gray-blue eyes look up for a moment and catch my own. Her firm stare forces me to return it. For a moment, she forgets her sewing, her rocking, the flickering of the light upon the wall….all is forgotten as she stares at me.

Then just as suddenly, her gaze returns to her work and all continues as before.

Somehow, I feel a rush of shame that my simple answer was not a suitable one. Somehow I feel that, by her simple remark, her simple reminder, her simple rebuke…. That somehow I have been sucked into a world of madness, just like the rest of the “precious Youth.” And somehow, I have failed to learn the lesson she tried to teach me.