She walks with tiny steps, which are designed to make her look as if she is floating. This only works if she wears long flowing skirts, but she only has rags now, the stained and ripped remnants of once fine garments. So her gait looks stumbling, as if her feet are tied together. Perhaps she’ll fall.
He walk, the dress, so much more about her speak of so much forgotten hope, of crushed dreams and dreadful sorrow. Her eyes are shrunken, the dark rings beneath look deflated, as if someone let out all the air. She has cried so much that the wrinkles of her cheeks have formed craggy little riverlettes leading salt
water away from her bloodshot darting little eyes.
But there is still strength there too. Again its her walk that gives it away. She’d get further if she opened her legs, a little, but continues her chaste little march.
So is this why you love her, her ever defiant strength, that despite so much she still stumbles on?
You are wrong. This is not strength, its is cowardice and weakness. If she was brave she would lie down and accept her life. She would stop taking baby steps and walk. She’s holding herself back, trying to do nothing, desperate to do something, always moving in a parody of movement, in tiny baby steps, as if her feet are tied together, but designed to make her look as if she’s floating.