Jason Walker

Hydrangeas

The grapefruit-faced woman sits in her recliner and doesn't move. Her hydrangeas are
starting to wither and lose their blue. Her children come to visit from nearby towns. To
them, it's as if she's deaf. Today, she hears her youngest son whisper that the carpet
smells like mothballs and diapers. His wife, who is sitting on the flowered couch
watching a rerun of a talk show, nods. The grapefruit-faced woman knows that her
grandchildren are at home, unoccupied with schoolwork, maybe playing a new
videogame that costs too much. She's lucky that her kids have money to give their kids, 
she tells herself again. She rocks in her recliner, stops, her head tilted sideways, and
almost drools. She almost dreams that her children never were born, and that she is still
young and driven, before a car burns out in her driveway, cuts a donut, and speeds off
toward the sun. The car passes a quiet house two blocks down the road where a single
mom stands erect and numb, watering hydrangeas.

Jason Walker lives in Birmingham, Alabama. Other short-short stories can be found online in Monkeybicycle, The Café Irreal, Oblong, NAP, and elsewhere.