An old woman bears her breasts in the cement clearing of a village compound. Wrinkled yet erect, she leans against the arm of her elderly daughter and shuffles slowly from one side of the compound to the other. At age 120, the shapely old woman drapes her traditional cloth around her waist as if her ancient skin were a fashion: exposing a full chest that hangs down to her tired pelvis.
In the afternoons, the old woman huddles on the stoop of her bedroom and chomps on oranges with surprising vigor. When I walk past, she stares with an attentive gaze that bears over one century’s worth of curiosity.