That was when I saw Mrs. Higgins. At eighty-two years old, she was a fixture of the neighborhood, usually seen conquering crosswords on her porch. But that day, she was hunched over an ancient, sputtering lawnmower, struggling against grass that reached her shins. Despite her trembling hands and the sweat beads on her brow, she offered a wobbly smile. I saw her pride, but I also saw her fading strength. My own back ached and my ankles had long since swollen into oblivion, but seeing her struggle made my own fears pause for a moment.
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