Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Squishy Grass


The little girl ran out of the house and onto the grass. It was soft and wet, a sensation she liked to feel in her feet. People didn't walk enough barefoot, she thought, or if they did, they rarely thought about it. Feet were like hands, could hold like hands and were sensitive like hands. She wiggled her toes, and they squished in the morning dew.

She scrunched her toes some more, then ran back inside. Her mother was making breakfast - cereal in a bowl - and talking on the phone.

"Christina. Goodness. Your feet are disgusting." Her mother looked her over. "Take a seat, and eat your breakfast." She placed the bowl on the table and motioned for Christina to sit and eat. Her little brother was already at the table, playing with a blob of something. She both wanted to know and didn't. Knowing everything had its price.

"Guys, hurry up, now. You're already running a few minutes late," the mother said. Then she paused, like a bubble appeared above her head reading "Hmmm..." "Christina, let's drop off your brother first today. I think we can figure out something else for you today." She twisted the blinds halfway down to dim the light, then grabbed her keys. She seemed to be looking for something else.

Christina's brother finished first, left everything on the table, and ran to get his backpack. Christina took one more bite, then cleared the table. The day starts slowly, she mused, and then it gets really, really fast. For once, she thought, I wish the day itself would feel like those quiet, squishy moments in the grass.

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