The sunlight poured through the window, warming each one of the floorboards its golden rays touched. It was there that she sat, each and every day in that old wooden chair. She would move it from its spot at the kitchen table, positioning it so that every part of her body could capture the suns warmth when she sat down. The old chair creaked each time she shifted positions, but she didn't seem to mind. Sometimes, I think she moved purposely just to hear the sound of something other than herself creak. She always sat with her ankles crossed, and her hands resting gently in her lap. Sometimes though, she would reach up and play with the pearls that always hung from her neck. She would start to coil the beads around her index finger, unraveling them, just to start again. As she did this, her head would tilt back just enough to allow the sun to land upon every wrinkled crevice of her skin. I used to think she was sleeping, because she would keep her eyes closed for such a long time. Her eyelids would dance, as though she was chasing a dream, and a smile would crawl ever so slowly across her face, pausing before her lips were fully drawn. When she opened her eyes again, they were usually glazed over with the beginning of a tear, but she never bothered to wipe it away. Instead, she allowed it to dry in the sun, when it began its slow roll down her cheek. Even though her spot now sits empty, as soon as I see the sun spill its golden rays upon the floorboards, I move that old chair from its spot at the table and position it just so; thinking that one day, I might be able to capture the suns warmth like she had.