Blades of Grass

Blades of grass pool over her feet like the waves of a graceful ocean, untouched by the blades of humanity. Green touches her eyes with vivid hands. She reaches down, and places a singular blade between her fingertips, running the length until she reaches the bottom. She pulls lazily, releasing it from the earthly hold it was confined in. Then, she lets go and the blade slips into an unknown world, alone and drifting. It turns and wobbles, completely at ease and submissive to the wind that guides it. One day, it will land and find another home, but until then it floats among the dust of the air.

The field of blades surrounding her march toward a sheer cliff. Without hesitation, a rocky wall overtakes the blades and shoots downward. The wall was once more, only until a mighty gale struck it down, tearing off pieces of its face. The rocks continue until they are drowned by pelagic waves. The mighty force of a deep and grand blue plunges itself into the rocky face. The sounds of the crashing waves collide in harmony with the rushing wind that sends the blades of grass forward. The vast cerulean sky envelopes the scene, like a warm blanket covering a baby.

She walks forward, each step of her foot pushing aside the green and pressing the blades caught underneath her into the soft earth. She walks until her feet meet the edge where the blades and rock become one. She breathes in cool air through her nose as she turns her head to the sun and smiles. The wind blows her dark red hued hair behind her shoulders and ripples her silken dress. She steps forward again, and the wind drags her down to the sea.

She opens her eyes calmly, gazing up past the ceiling above her and into nothing. She lazily pulls blankets off her and begins to prop herself up. She yawns and stretches her arms, before rubbing at her legs. She glances around her room and her eyes meet the first thing they do every morning, a wheelchair laid next to her bed. The wheelchair to her is as dark as a starless night, and she loathed calling it hers. So, it always was and always will be, a wheelchair. She turns her torso to the edge of her bed and pulls her legs to follow. She sits at the edge of her bed for a couple minutes, making sure she remembers her dream. The feeling of the wind on her face, and the blade of grass between her fingers. Her muscles ache as she leans down and fumbles with the chair, unfolding it. She struggles to get herself into it, as she does every morning, half falling. She pulls her legs to comply with the rest of her body, setting them in the wheelchair.

She lets out a weighty breath from the depths of her chest. A standing mirror placed in the corner of the room, tucked into its own world, isolated, still manages to throw her reflection back at her. She stares at herself. She pushes the wheels of her chair forward and brings herself to the mirror. She stares, at her disheveled hair, and at the skin that is giving up on her, looking more and more grey every day. Her eyes slowly move over to a medal hung over one of the arms holding the mirror. The medal is held by a scarlet ribbon, adorned with decorative design. The medal itself, gold, with a white circle running in the middle of it. She lazily picks it up in her fingertips; heavier than she remembers. She flips it over to look at the backside, pure gold with inscriptions in it and a phrase etched in a semi-circle around the bottom; 2008 Beijing Paralympic Games. As heavy as it felt in her hand, it felt weightless in her heart. She lets go and the medal falls back into place, clanging against the wood of the mirror.

The next hour and a half of her day is spent dressing, bathing, and eating breakfast. A singular piece of toast sits on top of a plain white plate, garnished with a small slice of butter. She takes four bites, each chunk of parched bread a struggle to swallow, then throws away the rest. Today is a nothing day. She takes four bites of both meals she prepares for lunch and supper, then throws away the rest. She wastes the time in between watching television and perusing her laptop, hanging fire until the worst time of her days. Nights dragged her to the bottom further. She doesn’t take action at night, she lays inside her thoughts, the thoughts that come every night, until her eyes close.

She opens her eyes calmly, gazing up past the ceiling above her and into nothing. She looks over to the wheelchair, as she did every morning. Today is a something day. A small insignificant something. Her mam had asked her to go to dinner, was it a week ago? She forgot, but she remembered it was today, only because her mother had called her and reminded her. She goes through her longsome morning routine, then wastes her time at the television until 5:00 pm decides to show its face. She hears the sound of a car’s wheels dragging themselves along the pavement of her driveway. She pushes herself towards a window that opens the house to the rest of the world. Her own wheels creak the wooden floor below her, a sound that she is now completely numb to. She gazes outside and sees her mam’s car idling on the drive. A knock on the front door fractures the isolation of her house. The door swings open and footsteps barge their way inside.

“El, alright?” her mam’s voice calls from the background as the noise of shoes bang up against a wall. Her eyes lock in place on her mam’s car, waiting for it to reverse itself out of the driveway. Her mam steps out of the corridor to the entrance of the house and into the living room, forcing her way to the midground. “Ready there, dear?” her mam says. Ella remains, she did not answer or blatantly disregard her mam, she watches. She watches a small house sparrow land on the roof of her mam’s car outside. Brown, white, and black. The sparrow blends and sinks into the environment around it. Existing, it remains. The sparrow turns its head and stares back at Ella. A hand rests on her shoulder. “Bout ye, love? Are ye deef?” her mam says.

“It’s dead-on, mam, just watchin the sparras” Ella says.

“Ah, those things really does me head in. Gotta have 10 at the feeder a day,” her mam says.

“We gettin grub from the usual place?”

“Aye, thought we’d take a dander down to Poacher’s pub.”

“Can ye run us over? I dona feel like pushin today.”

“It’s only a wee way down, dear- “

“Ma, I’m cream crackered,” Ella interrupts.

“Aye, sorry lass, that’ll be dead-on.”

Ella’s mam grabs the handles of the wheelchair without asking, pushing herself into her daughter’s foreground and Ella to the front door. Ella’s mam stops for a moment to put her shoes back on. “Oh ma, boys a dear my guts are bad.” “Out to fuck, ma, I don’t want ye here” “I’m ye waste of good air, ma.” “Ah be betta to take a long walk off a short pier.” “Shut yer bake, yer away in the head.” “It’s all buggered.” “Ah got a face like a baten bear.” The door swings open and the last blade of isolation Ella grasps onto slips away from her, into the wind.

The dinner goes by in a trifling manner. The same conversations repeating, the same food ordered. Ella’s mam goes on about her neighbors and about work, about the weather and about nothing. The waiter that serves them has a gentle look in his eyes, with a trimmed beard and a fit body. He smiles when he takes their orders. Ella glances at her mam each time he stops over to the table and sees the same look perk her face each time. After he brings Ella’s mam a Guinness and her water and leaves the table with a smile, Ella’s mam leans into her. “Thon big lads’ smiling at ye a lot,” her mam says, “thon boys a quer ride.”

“Dona be a eejit, ma,” Ella says, “he’s jus been polite.” 

“I think he fancies ye,” her mam says.

“He don’t. Do ye think I came up the Lagain in a bubble? Look a me- “ 

“Ella- “

“He dona want me, Ma.”

“Sorry, dear.”

“None wanta ride me. These buggered legs.”

Beer battered haddock sits in front of El. Always the same. El thinks of speaking again and again. She thinks about asking her mam if she is happy. About asking her mam what she lives for, or about if she could have not had El would she? Every time El goes to open her lips and attempts to start something meaningful, she instead finds her own hand putting a chip in her mouth. El only eats half her chips and doesn’t touch the haddock. She boxes the rest. She tells her mam that she would eat it later that night. Her mam always concerned herself with El’s eating. Ella thought it was a good cover from her mam to show El that she pretended to care.

On the drive back, El stares out the window of the car to the one-story buildings sparse by the streets and at the insipid smoky sky that covers the world above her. A grey bricked church fit with a squared tower that encases the entrance, and a slanted roof passes by her vision. It took a moment to pass by and only that long to remember all the times she’s stepped inside there. She feels guilt seep into her conscious for a moment, recalling her absence of late from the church. Guilt is quickly dissipated by a feeling of carelessness, as El rests her hand on her cheek. “It’s a wee fine day,” Ella says.

“Aye,” her mam says.

As they arrive, the tires of the car grip and drag themselves along the pavement of the driveway alongside El’s house. El’s mam relieves the engine of its duty and gets out of the car first, rummages the back and works her way around to set up the wheelchair and help El out. The most degrading process to Ella. She loathes riding anywhere because of it, and in turn, loathes leaving her solitary home. Ella situates herself and wraps her hands around the rubber of her own wheels.

“All the best, Ma,” Ella says, “thank ye.”

“No bother, dear,” her mam says, “love ye.”

Ella heads inside. Night begins to show its despairing face inside her home. The darkness outside begins to crawl its way into the house with ease, without any lights to block its advance. Ella drops her carried belongings on her counter and positions herself to waste the rest of her night at the TV. She picks up the remote in her right hand and attempts to turn the TV on, but her mind stops her. Her mind reminds her how much of a waste watching it is. How that TV is not the only thing in her life that speaks to her but doesn’t require a response. It, like so many others, doesn’t want or need anything from her. Perhaps it pities her like the rest of the world does. She sets the remote back down and stares at the black pit set up so perfectly in her living room. She stares, maybe for minutes, maybe for hours. Does it matter anymore?

Ella relinquishes herself to the bathroom and begins to draw a bath, watching the water hit the bottom of the tub and conform to its surroundings. The water is completely and utterly at ease to its own flow and the vessel that holds it. It goes where it is supposed to and never where it is not. An all-life-giving substance, the planet revolves around it, and it doesn’t give a fuck about itself. Ella works herself into the tub after it’s fills. Getting in takes the breath from her chest, causing her lungs to ask for it back, as she huffs. Finally, she relaxes. She lays her back against the tub and lets her head fall with it. She gazes up past the ceiling above her and into nothing. She closes her eyes calmly.

Blades of grass pool over her feet like the waves of a graceful ocean, untouched by the blades of humanity. Green touches her eyes with vivid hands. She reaches down, and places a singular blade between her fingertips, running the length until she reaches the bottom. She pulls lazily, releasing the blade from the earthly hold it was confined in. Then, she gracefully runs the blade along her skin, feeling the soft tingling of the singular green saying hello to her. It welcomes her with an open heart. She contemplates wrapping the blade around her finger, holding it as her own, as she runs it down her arm. Then, she releases it, letting the blade slip from her fingers and watching it fall suddenly to the earth below it. Dragged down by an unseen force that demanded it back.

The field of blades surrounding her march toward a sheer cliff. Without hesitation, a rocky wall overtakes the blades and shoots downward. The mighty force of a deep and grand blue plunges itself into the rocky face. The sounds of the crashing waves collide in harmony with the rushing wind that sends the blades of grass forward. The vast vermillion sky envelopes the scene, like a warm blanket covering a baby.

She walks forward, each step of her foot pushing aside the green and pressing the blades caught underneath her into the soft earth. She walks until her feet meet the edge where the blades and rock become one. She breathes in cool air through her nose as she turns her head to the sun and smiles. The wind blows her dark red hued hair behind her shoulders and ripples her silken dress. She steps forward again, and the wind drags her down to the sea.