Eleanor at Last It was my first sight of her in many years. She stood tall and regal as ever, framed in the grand entrance to the palace. But as I came closer, I was stunned at her fragility. Although she was standing upright with no help, she looked so brittle I thought her bones might break before we got to a greeting. I saw also that she was shaking like a reed in the wind with a kind of palsy. And I felt my animosity shrink alarmingly. The full, cascading, burnished hair I remembered was now thin and gray. She still wore it high on her head and, as was her custom always, with no covering other than a single jeweled diadem. As I approached, she held out her hand for me to kiss. It was freckled with age spots, clearly visible in the sun, which at just that moment decided to spread out like butter over us all. I realized that I had remembered her mostly as the young woman of my childhood, and the sight of her in this state caused some blurring of my vision with tears, despite my best intentions.
