Where the Earth Never Welcomed Me

I was five when I learned that grass is not my friend. I imagined many friends, some flowers, butterflies, and others were hummingbirds. However, grass was anything but. Running through fields felt like a sea of knives, each blade reaching out to scratch my little legs. I looked up to see my friends coating the field of grass that I so badly hated. The hummingbirds flew to the flowers, and the butterflies danced above. At one point, I started to ignore the field of grass entirely. As my other friends lingered within the field, I walked the perimeter, admiring their happiness. But the grass tried to pull me in; it tickled my legs as I walked, leaving redness and scratches as I went. I was envious of my friends in the field. Why couldn’t I be friends with the grass like they were? 

As I got older, my feelings toward the irritating grass stayed. On picnics, I placed blankets underneath me to separate the two of us. I braved my backyard barefoot, but the itch and redness returned like always. Nature never felt peaceful when I was always upset with the friend I wanted to be mine. Now I am sixteen and I’ve realized that not everyone wants to be my friend. When I go on picnics, I don’t bring a blanket. Instead, I let myself scratch my legs until I am fully satisfied. I now know that some parts of me have been untouched and unchanged, and that this is just who I am. I am the girl who could never befriend grass.