mother azalea’s sad home for forgotten adults
James Van Pelt
Tad rolled Mrs. Yost toward the movie hall where we were showing last year’s remake of Shane. Her chin rested on her chest, and her white hair was so thin that freckles on her scalp showed through. She was ninety-one. Like everyone, her backstory was interesting. She’d been a mother twice, a grandmother once. Her first child died in the 2031 Estonian dustup. Mrs. Yost had been a dancer, a teacher, and a mayor. Undoubtedly, if I pursued her biography deep enough, I’d find a great narrative. Everyone had a great narrative, when I spent time with it. But she was ninety-one and her story ended years ago.
“How’s her QL?” I asked. Tad, looking particularly androgynous, put his/her, whatever, fingers against the old woman’s neck. His
