At a first glance at the elderly woman marching her way down the streets, the youth's eyes saw a withering flower which has come to lose all of its bright petals; a rosebud substituted by a thorn. Her tanned skin was an un-ironed shirt which had been worn multiple of times, yet thrown back into the closet over and over again. Her hair was the color of silver, tight ringlets of snowflakes making their way down to earth. Her eyes were forest green flecked with amber and gold as the light reflected into them. She possessed stubby eye-lashes carefully painted with a smooth layer of mascara. Her thin, chapped lips were slightly agape, inhaling slowly. They were pulled into a frowning grimace, causing her eyes to lose their spark. Her high, visible cheekbones were dotted with rouge, her jawline still sharp after years of age. Yet her clothes were weather-worn and torn, dirty and tattered from decades of abuse.