Where the Grass Used to Grow
Little white lines of paint had been scattered across the thick, unkempt lawn by some one long since gone. The paints been there for as long as I can remember—there’s been no rain to wash it away. I like to stand and look at it and wonder. I wonder about who put it there and why, but I’ll probably never know the answer to that. Most of all I wonder if they knew, the people who left those lines of paint, knew that they would stand as a testimony to another time. A better time? I wish I knew that too.
Most people around here don’t come to look at those little white lines of paint; they come to look at the grass. Miracle grass. You won’t find anything green for sixty miles in any direction, but this grass is a deep, deep, green, and taller than Anna Francis’ new baby.
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