She walked with a slight limp, arranging the dowdy cap on her head like a barren flower bed in Mrs. Smith’s yard. She wasn’t anything like he’d imagined. Not while he was beaten in the orphanage or when he was given an old, seamless edition of Tom Sawyer or a useless sweater.
The old oak stooped over the fence, scrubbing the serrated wood. By the Oldsmobile, she fumbled with keys; her glasses barely hanging.
“Mrs. Robinson, lemme help you Ma’am.”
“Thank you… who are you?” She struggled as he pulled the ajar door.
“Hi, Mom.” The warm dust rose and swallowed the words.
Word Count: 103
Above in response to Voice week 2013, first voice