By LA Carson

Greta lingers at the open window and closes cataract cloudy eyes, attempting to quiet the circus of confusion performing in her mind. Frail, yellowed curtains dance in an unexpected breeze. Fresh air neutralizes the caustic old peoples’ smell and caresses her face like an attentive lover. Despite all she’s forgotten, she conjures him without effort. She revels in the memory of Central Park grass on young skin, his whiskered stubble on her neck. He was the love of her life and she’d never uttered his name to anyone, not even her husband, God rest him. Wistful melancholy taps her shoulder, interrupts the rare delight.

The aide arrives and wheels her down linoleum hallways of dismal coming attractions. Without benefit of conversation, he deposits her, like perfunctory cargo, into the outdoor garden.

Returning later to fetch his patient, he finds discarded slippers, an abandoned wheelchair. Against a wall of evergreen ivy, Greta’s pink nightgown flutters in the wind and wisps of white hair take flight across her defiant face. One gnarled hand clutches the hoe handle that keeps her erect, the other hand rests affectionately at the side of her neck. Her bare feet savor the garden grass.

“Sebastian,” she proclaims, his liberated name a relished triumph.

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   LA Carson writes fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work has appeared in 101 Words, CafeLit, Alien Buddha, and Bristol Noir among others.  Scribes Prize semifinalist 2023. She lives in southern California.