We passed the last dandelion by late morning, and by noon, the grass had faded. Nothing grew in the gray, aether-swept deadlands beyond the city’s eastern wall.
“I should bring Martha,” said Ma, her voice cracked with age. “She’d love it.”
My younger sister patted Ma’s shoulder. “I’m here, Ma.”
“Oh, not you, dear. I meant my daughter, Martha.”
The spectre of a girl appeared, matching our slow pace with her skipping walk. This was the Martha that Ma remembered, aged six, not a thirty-year-old woman with children of her own.Continue Reading
