The weight has come to rest on the eyelids. They refuse to close for fear it may be the last time they see movement. Lately the days aren't reminiscent of time spent sipping from cups. Not even the fancy cups my grandmother served to the ladies with embroidered handkerchiefs in their purses.

The fingerprints then were small and didn't have many secrets to hold but were full of expectation. Mischief was ordinary and leaving before one hundred years were filled was out of the question. Of course, this type of longevity requires daily renewal.

The prints of sin can hide the value of the heart like bad abstract art. Still it isn't as easy to avoid as once believed. It stands on every corner waiting to weigh in.