I’m going out to get the mail, she called, and no one responded.
She put on the boots by the front door.
The hydrangea drooped bloomy branches over the front step. Her clippers were in the shed. The back was overgrown with clematis and beach grass, festive Douglas fir, and a lone peach.
Why are you here? her daughter said from the chaise.
I’m going out to get the mail.
Mail does not exist, the daughter said.
Yes, she said to her daughter. Of course.
She tilted her head up to the sun. Four clouds invited her into their fluff. She gave up a considerable section of gray matter to the sky.
The hydrangea drooped still, as did the magnolia. Those saucers were long gone.
The mailbox was empty. She stuck her hand in and pulled out a riff of nothing.
I’m going out to get the mail, damn you, she said. She put in her hand again, reached to the very back and pulled out a handful of morning glories. She took them to the settee and, one by one, opened each glory and responded in kind.
