Amaya had it under control. After twenty-five years of not having it under control, it was a nice feeling.
She walked out into her back yard, no longer a yard exactly, but a garden with stone paths throughout. She grabbed her floppy, tan sun hat from the hook by the back door. No skin cancer for her, thankyouverymuch. Not when she wasn't sure that anything less than a beheading or a ritualistic dissection of her organs could kill her. Maybe burning, she considered. But it would have to be a thorough burning.
The sun dripped flames today. Amaya was sweating before she reached the azaleas near the back fence. They had been beautiful a week ago, shrub clouds of pink and purple and white. Then the colors began to fade and the joyful star-shaped blossoms began to shrivel. Most of the blossoms now lay among the roots or hung from the stems like downcast faces.
Amaya glanced around, even though she'd bought the high fence herself and puttied the gaps between boards so the neighbors, who moved in and out too quickly to keep track, could never see her in the garden, even by accident.
When she was sure no one was watching, Amaya touched one dying pink blossom and watched it revive, watched the color return and the shriveled petals straighten with new life. Then, before the effect could spread to other flowers, Amaya let go and stood back, watching the wind wave the shrub's short branches, the one young flower alone among the old.
This was how she kept control. No more toying with hamsters and stray pets like when she was a teenager. No more watching the people around her suffer. No more dreading the moment when it would burst out of her, wherever she was, never mind who was near her.
Now, she had a garden.
Amaya thrust her hands through the branches and grabbed the trunk and felt all the stiffness in her hands vanish, the restlessness traveling through her hands and into the azaleas.
They exploded with color. Old blossoms became young. New blossoms bloomed from empty stems. Old branches stretched out and up. New branches sprang out of the trunk and sprouted buds that quivered for seconds before bursting into bloom.
Just a few more seconds. Amaya closed her eyes for a second, enjoying the almost painful release of power going out, but the second stretched on, and when she opened her eyes, the bush lay before her, a lank brown skein, decaying in the blazing sun.
Amaya let go, then touched the bush again, but nothing happened. It was dead. It was beyond her reach.
She sighed and stroked the dead stems. Almost under control. Nothing could change until she got it right.
She stood and went to find her spade.