The magnolias swayed in the wind. Edith and Jackie watched them from their porch where they sat swinging in their favorite chair. Women 80 years of age, they had seen a lot, but the flowers never got old.

“Magnolia,” Edith whispered.

“Huh?” Jackie sat up. “Magnolias. Plural.”

Edith shook her head. “No, Jackie. Magnolia.” She winked.

Jackie didn’t wink back. “Oh.” She sat back in the chair.

“Well, it was great time then, wasn’t it? Me and you and our car and the . . .”

“A lifetime ago, Edith. I’m not Magnolia anymore.”

“And I’m not Orchid. But I feel her sometimes still, deep in me. She is me, after all.”

Jackie nodded. “Magnolia is here, too,” she patted her heart. “But nobody can know that. Fifty years ago, or more now. We should be,” she lowered her voice, “in prison.”

They both eyed the prairie before them and the gorgeous flowers they tended to.

“We’ve done good, Magnolia,” Edith winked again.

Jackie smiled. “Orchid, I do think we could do one more round, in our old age and all.”

Edith stood. “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll get the guns.”