17 October 2019 in Writing

She and I are friends, but we meet to share all the things we dislike about ourselves.

We sit at the edge of the field watching the tall grass sway back and forth. “A thing I dislike,” I say. “How I bend to the wind, like this grass.”

She agrees, “Not knowing what I want and letting the breeze crush me, exposing the brown soil at the seam. Yes.”

We watch the grasses yield to the wind. The ones closest to us are turning to straw, but on the other side of the deep blue scar between fields, the reeds stand triumphant and green and the willows moan low and gray.

“A thing I dislike,” I say. “How people call me Technicolor when this is my reality palette.”

As I sweep my hand in front of me, the straw grasses bow down, the scar sings, and the willows throw some shade.

“We are the colors of nature,” she agrees. “Yes.”

We clasp forearms and help each other rise, but then change our minds, brushing the dirt from our clothes and scattering our souls to the wind.