my mother in the mud

Two of us were batting the winged ball back and forth across the net. The others were there too, surveying flowers and plants, determining just when they were due to come up.

My mother was watching the game, sometimes glancing over the river's channel, expecting ducks or geese to float along on the water. She was happy, just sitting there in her wheelchair -- at least we thought so.

No sounds -- a few voices -- a putt, putt, putt and then a scream, and a splash -- or rather a splush --

And wheelchair and my mother down in the muddy low waters -- more mud than water -- sinking down until her face was covered -- and all of us, suddenly aware that she had been sitting there alone -- who left her?

Up they tugged at the chair and my mother, managed to separate them and bring my mother up out of the much, face entirely of mud and unrecognizable, whisked her up to the house, cleaned her up, and all of us standing around wordless, my mother smiled -- that was funny, she said.