Grass

I was sitting on the grass.
By the river.
Legs crossed, in the shade.
Shade from a too searing hot, mid-morning sun.
And the grass felt cool.
The river was brownish and not especially scenic.
But there was something slightly calming about it.
Water.
A body of water, separating me from buildings, roads.
It gave space to the landscape.

But between me and it was a tarmac path.
A walkway.
A bikeway.
A busy path.
I hung my head to look at the grass, and to avoid the passing people.
To try and process exactly what it was I was feeling.
And - more important - why?

The grass was very soft and very green.
Not typical of the area.
I stroked a blade between my fingers.
Stroke stroke stroke
While I thought thought thought
If it was a kitten, I'd have been stroking its head, thoughtfully.

But there was no rent-a-kitten stall here for passing meditators, troubled pedestrians.
Right then that blade of grass was my best friend in the whole world.
I loved that grass.
My fingers were very gentle with it.

People passed from time to time, walking mostly.
The odd bike swishing and ticking past.
As I gradually processed, and just let the feelings be felt.
One set of approaching footsteps seemed to sound closer than they ought.
Drawn into my orbit by a gravity.
A passing stranger. Literally.
Then he spoke.

"Are you ok?"

That was possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.