Comes a Time - Frederick Ramey

The handwriting didn’t look like his. Neither did the hand. It was so thin. And it was shaking just a little bit. Not like the aspen leaves. Are there still leaves now, so late in the year? He looked down the cold mountain to see and then raised his arm to follow the slope. It was shaking just a little, that hand, like it was afraid, and it was spotted and pale and turned in a sad way. Because it was old. That was something Raymond understood well enough.