February 2016 Writing Prompt: Describe a part of somebody's body in detail.
In the latter years of my life as my memory fades, it is no surprise that when I remember Ambrosia Plushbottom, the only image that comes to my senescent mind is her mouth. I cannot remember the color of her eyes or her hair; I cannot recollect how tall or short she was; my age-addled brain cannot even recall the most basic shape of her face. If Ambrosia were to stand in front of me I would not remember her, but the moment she opened her mouth to speak, my memory would return in a flood.
I think it was that odd combination of mismatched lips, teeth, and tongue. When she spoke, the result was a spastic ballet that surprised you when you heard actual intelligible words. Watching Ambrosia speak was like viewing a badly dubbed foreign film, the brain stretching itself to marry contradictory visual and auditory clues as the small pink tongue waltzed around broad teeth that belonged more to equine than human biology, and moist lips that had smothered many a screaming child in matronly kisses.