Uprooted

They were surrounded by the buzz of their counterparts moving in ripples controlled by the wind, yet they stood still. Two blades in a meadow. They need not be found, rescued, or saved. An unspoken companionship kindled by Mother Nature.

“I couldn’t care less,” the first blade said. He turned with the wind. “Hi, ma’am.”

A grin comparable to the Cheshire Cat spread across an older blade’s face.

He had always been taller, leaner, greener. Shinier. More fertile. A more pleasant blade of grass overall. Charming, too. He always kept his color longer than all the others when the weather cooled down.

“Meaning?” he said, pretending to be uninterested.

He was shorter; little brown circles decorated his stubby self. A slight curl made him stick out. It didn’t even take the cool months for him to become, well… unsightly. He played off his appearance with a nonchalant attitude—quick, witty comebacks that often made others feel small.

“I couldn’t care less if this was a meadow, a turf, or a poor man’s lawn. You know how much I love being a blade.”

“Could you be more cheesy? What’s your point?” the other snapped back, pretending to lose his patience.

“But don’t you ever wonder? I hear stories of dazzling blossoms with shocking colors, miniature winged animals, even tall beasts with green feathers that tower over, well…” He paused as if to search his lexicon for the right word. The other imagined him shuffling through. He always picked correctly. “…everything.”

The murmurs around them somehow made the conversation feel more intimate. No one would listen—because they couldn’t.

The other blade of grass lost even more pigment. “How can you want?” he erupted. “Every day jealousy overcomes me. How can you search for more when you have everything a blade of grass could ask for? Blades literally yelp tears of joy when the wind blows them in your direction. You are well spoken and advocate for yourself, yet polite. You are mature and level-headed, yet age-appropriate. You are perfect in every way, and my body aches to be like you—and all yours aches for is to not. How can’t you understand? How can’t you see?”

He stopped his rant short to take a breath. He also had many respiratory issues. “You blind fool.” He was known to never leave anything on a good note.

A bright green flooded his blade. “But none of that matters to me the way it does to you. Though I’m flattered, I think this ache will never go away. The looks, the personality… I don’t see them in myself, nor will I ever. Here in this field, everyone and everything is shallow, and connecting with the outside is my last hope.” He sighed. “And with that… goodbye.”

In one swift motion he untangled his roots from the ground—an intricate yet smooth process, at least for him. Right now there was no wind, so the two of them sat there: interlocking spirits, or cells, or something.

Then, before either of them was ready—maybe they never would be—he was off.