Mumbling Betty
Flash Fiction
Her hair wisped over her shoulders as her lips moved. No words crashed against the sky. No sounds erupted from her torso as she twisted her body and grasped onto her cane.
“Mumbling Betty,” my grandmother whispered as she leaned into me, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head.
My eyes fixated on her movement—slow, indiscriminate. She placed her foot on the top step and glanced over her shoulder.
Her eyes dug deep within my soul and pulled up my fears and dreams. They collided in mid-air as her voice crept through the crashing thunder. “Your eyes are like mine, lest you forget who you are.”
She turned away as my mind twirled each word around. I glanced over at my grandmother, shuffling through her purse. For the first time since I was fifteen, I wondered if she was my kin.
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