As I walked the deserted beach, a white leather wheelchair rolled in from the waves. Not a swimmer, I could save no one. Not even my mom with her failing heart, who used to bring me garden blooms she carried pouched in her Alice-blue apron.
Muttering thunder struck. A body surfaced the water, wrinkled like old parchment. Helpless, I screamed, tasting a sudden burn of red radishes in my mouth, recalling a memory of my mother and me guzzling water from the backyard hose.
Beneath the mackerel sky, among uneven waves, my dead mother broke through, face sun-bright, offering hydrangeas.
Muttering thunder struck. A body surfaced the water, wrinkled like old parchment. Helpless, I screamed, tasting a sudden burn of red radishes in my mouth, recalling a memory of my mother and me guzzling water from the backyard hose.
Beneath the mackerel sky, among uneven waves, my dead mother broke through, face sun-bright, offering hydrangeas.
