This story first appeared at Microfiction Monday Magazine.
Mom’s black pants are in the trash again. I don’t know why and never will. Her mind functions unattended these days.
I give her the single rose and card. She says it’s not her birthday. I tell her I know. She reads the card and places it on her bed without comment.
I help her walk to the window, and we watch the trees struggle to stay erect in the strong wind. Life hasn’t knocked her over yet, but it will. I think she still knows that.