She sat on top of the hill and thought about how the grass was sticking her through the fabric of her jeans. She thought about how grass just kind of is and there’s nothing much more she could think about it, except that it was nice for the most part, although a little too prickly to lay down her head.
And she thought about how, if she tugged up a cluster of blades and yanked them straight out of the ground, no one but her and the neighboring grass would ever know.
Sometimes she wished she was like that, surrounded by neighbors but somehow insignificant all the same, so that blades of failure and a sharp stab of loneliness could be uprooted, without question or consequence, making way for a new blade of hope without a sound.
She startles, and stares up at the sky. Dawn is breaking, and with her hands cupped together she offers up a prayer of thanks like a paper crane. And just like that, gratitude flies on white wings up toward morning.