Six Word Memoirs on Life Stories

Trayfwa says,

Driving by she saw them. Bright and gentle, big and fluffy. It wasn’t only the colors, it was the combination of colors that got her. Yellow and purple, orange and magenta, blue and white. Slowly the beauty of the pillowy Iris began to smother the women’s ugly words. She imagined the color and light bleaching out the voice in her head.
And just when she thought she had seen them all, one more large stand of irises sang to her, commanding her car to swerve into a stranger’s driveway causing her coffee to spill again. She didn’t care. Anna threw open the door. With a few sure steps she was face to face with the gray and lime green flower.
A gray and green flower! When did flowers get to become gray anyway? Flowers were supposed to be yellow. Yellow like those smiley-faced “Hello I am an early spring flower” daffodils that ignorantly bloomed on the sides of the highway. Or red. Red like a dozen expensive clichéd long-stemmed excuses for flowers. And pink like those insipid impatiens suburban women insisted on planting in front of their hedges like placid fruity soldiers. But gray? Gray?
And in that moment Anna knew that the well dressed woman whose words she had listened to on line at the Motor Vehicle Department had barley got dirty planting three flats of over-priced impatiens in front of her own yew and rhododendron.
The woman, (her name was Cherylynn, her friend had called her) had been going on and on about her daughter. “Morgan is such a bitch, I mean I love her but I usually don’t like her.” Anna assumed she was talking about a teenager. “My first, Caitlin loved to snuggle and read with me but Morgan constantly pushes me away. For a three year old she’s just such a little bitch.”
Three year old bitch. She heard the women’s nasal voice saying “three year old bitch” over and over as she fled. The words “three year old bitch” stung jarring her brief memories of having been a Mother. Three year old bitch. The phrase was foreign and at odds with everything she remembered about her own sweet young daughter before she died. Three year old bitch- the words as weird as a gray iris.
Anna touched one of the flowers tenderly and slowly. Its petals seemed to respond to her as if they were human skin. For a moment she imagined a pulse or maybe it was the vibration from the leaf blowers from next door. Only then did she realize that she was in somebody’s yard with only a faint memory of how she arrived there.
Then suddenly with clarity of thinking and strength of purpose that she had not felt for awhile, she reached into the ground imagining a psychic surgeon performing a heart transplant and pulled out a gray and green iris complete with rhizome and roots. Still throbbing she placed the flower tenderly next to her on the stained seat of the car and got the hell out of there.