Underworld on Parmer Lane

There was a kind of bedlam today, at the Garden House. My mother and her friends sat and ate their lunch, like so many pre-schoolers at little tables.
Paper napkins, plastic flowers, simulacrum dining.
She sat and looked wet eyed and confused to see me, and she told me how pretty I was.
I talked about the Olympics.
Her hair was dirty. Her shirt too.
The soup was passed by staff less than happy to be there, moving their stones up hills each day…

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