“Why Would That Help?,” by Diane Williams

Her son has a memory of her flat on her back on her bed, in a white nightgown, a type of inert mother he can sometimes be calmed by.Her breasts poke at the thin fabric of her gown, and there are shadows in the folds of the bed linen. Gold flares up in her hair.How generous his mother was to some people—but was she? Or was she a mother who murdered her children every day she spent with them, whether they liked it or not? Her son thinks this, though more sides of the story are necessary.She had made such good use of the soil and the sun with her planting.She worked alone in the garden. She always did.Nobody helped her. No one else cared, she thought—it looked that way.Yet the vegetables increased in number every summer, and were preserved in the fridge, or the tomatoes were shared with neigh