Sweet little lady, bare feet in the summer grass. Her eyes closed, face up to the sky, there is forever stretched around her.
Perfect, perfect, and her heart just stops just one moment as she breathes in the universe…as the years followed behind her, never quite catching up. She smiled at those who least expected it. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault (although it could be someone’s fault), there was no one to blame, but those poor pretty hearts were left in the dust by the side of country roads.
Fierce little lady, with dark bright eyes and sorrow slightly tinged, her bare feet shift as she slowly pulls one piece of grass, then two, and makes a bridge for insects to cross.
Memories have a tendency to pile up, to push the stories out of the way, to allow us to forget more than we remember, to only remember the strangest things. Her stories never had the right audience, her hands weaving in the air, but she only had one or three really good stories. The trick was to stay quiet, to stretch ears beyond the confines of the room, and while she had forgotten to do this for a few years, it came back to her eventually.
Would it actually work to roll down the hill? It was soft and green, but the end of the hills disappoint exponentially as our expectations are raised. God knew that our eyes wanted blue skies, green grass, pieces of paper covered in squiggly lines, hands grasped in hands, pots of stew simmering, bird feathers, rows of trees, and bare feet in hot sand.
Quiet little lady, she gathers up her garlands of wilted flowers and pieces of stories, and walks down the hill toward home.