She is Laying in the Grass

She is laying in the grass, more at home here than anywhere in the world. The stiff blades itch under her arms and legs. They are cool and brilliant in color. Even when she is perfectly still the soft irritation remains and when she moves the blades slowly snap back to their natural places in crisp, spontaneous motions. The shadows of trees slowly recede under the steadily cresting sun to leave her exposed under its intense warmth. Even in the damp, dewy morning the light on her skin warms her and makes her clothes hot on her body. She drowses here, among puffy dandelions and patches of clover, with tall oaks and papery barked birches overhead. The morning is sweet smelling and fresh. Her heart is immensely happy here and there is little in her mind that she does not feel or smell or perceive through sense.

And then morning passes. The sun is hot and persistent. The gentle itch of the grass becomes a hollow grating on skin that has become sensitive from prolonged aggravation. The mellow shade of the trees is gone but for small slivers that create thin, bold outlines around the very edge of the leaves and trunks. Soon the shadows will be cast into the forest, into the dirt and brush far from where she loves to lie. The dandelions and clover remain. Their sweet scent permeates the heat and reminds her that she was happiest here only hours ago.

When he comes for her it is a relief. There is little left of the physical memory that she can see or smell or feel. She tells him that this place is not what it was. She describes the change and the infiltrating sadness which that change brings her. Her arms still itch with phantom blades tickling her skin. There is even a thin moisture on her face from the midday heat. Her hair sticks to her forehead uncomfortably and she is ready to leave.

He picks a pebble for her and holds her tenderly to show her the stone. It is simple and smaller than the nail of his smallest finger. Holding her gaze, he explains to her while placing the pebble in her hand. He tells her this: the pebble is the unhappiness that the world brings her. He tells her to keep it and she does. She worries away at the pebble until it is much too small to be a pebble any longer.

Later, he takes her to the ocean. She is much bigger now but when he asks her for the pebble she has only to bring it out of her pocket. The chip of smooth stone it is no longer represents what it was. He throws it into the sand. Her heart falters and her eyes widen and she reaches with unintentional reflex to recover her pebble. He takes her hand with a firm grasp and tells her that this beach is all the pain of the world. Now her pebble is at home, no less important or unrecognized. Even in her disappointment she nods.

Some time in her life she returns to the place where she was most at home. Even in the thick heat of the afternoon she feels a deep appreciation for her place in the grass, the trees, and the light around her, precious earlier in the morning. She stays until the sun moves out of the sky and the smothering warmth tempers into a balmy, agreeable atmosphere and the grass feels softened. She understands. He does not come for her now but there is still relief.