Not a Zombie in Sight

Margaret sat on her porch swing, Barney, her golden retriever, resting his graying muzzle on her slippered feet. The afternoon sun warmed her apricot knees—should have worn sunscreen, she thought, then remembered: at seventy-two, what were a few more freckles?

Through the chain-link fence, she watched her granddaughter Emma dart across the pickleball court. “It's padel now, Grandma,” Emma had corrected her last week, laughing. “Pickleball is for old people.” Margaret had smiled. The girl didn't know that Margaret had played court tennis in college, her skirt fluttering like a white flag surrendering to youth.

The television flickered in the living room behind her. She'd cancelled the cable last month—too expensive, too many channels, nothing worth watching. Her son had set up some streaming thingamajig. She still couldn't remember which button to press.

“You're becoming a zombie, Mom,” he'd teased when he found her staring at the black screen, remote in hand, frozen by choice paralysis.

The words had stung more than he knew. Her mother had spent her final years in a nursing facility, eyes vacant, body present but spirit departed—a zombie in all but name. Margaret had sworn: not me. Not ever.

Barney stirred, thumped his tail. A squirrel dashed across the lawn.

She stood, joints singing their morning hymn of pops and crackles, and walked to the fence. “Emma!” she called. “Hit me the ball!“

Her granddaughter's face lit up. The ball sailed through the air, and Margaret—though her arm had lost its strength, though she moved slowly—caught it cleanly and threw it back with the same joy she'd felt at twenty-two.

The dog barked, tail wagging. The girl laughed. And Margaret, breathing deeply, felt something surge through her veins that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with refusal.

She would never be a zombie. She would catch every ball life threw her way, however it came—through the cable, across the fence, or in the quiet company of a dog who still remembered how to play.