Great Aunt Zona, Who Lives in Arizona
Sun-sweat drips from the crevices between her french toast stick fingers, and mingles with condensation coating the fruity drink resting blithely in her palm, outstretched like a Grecian waitress’s holding a marble tray. A breeze tumbles over the desert oasis and cools newly-formed glass confetti vulcanized by a Pepto-Bismol stream. It splattered the patio put in last fall. Zona rises, surveying a meticulously maintained yard-scape through an old Mod’s sunglasses and sighs.
“Oh, these glasses get so much like slippery fish in August, and Bob’s not trimmed the grass.”
Now unfazed, Zona drifted inside their ranch-style home thinking she’d find Bob, but was quickly diverted by a cranial pang and found herself padding down the central corridor towards a medicine closet in hopes of relief. As she slid the door open, a soft flurry of gaudily colored winter scarves, hats, and ski socks tumbled from an overstocked heap. Always intended as Christmas gifts for Eastern seaboard relatives, she’d carried on crocheting, forgetting to maintain a reasonable turnover of her labor’s fruit.
And certainly, she had no use for such things, as she was perennially in the sun, and Bob had died five years ago.
—By Macie M., 19 years old, Pittsburgh, PA