Manicure

We drove from the cramped conditions of the downtown streets. Concrete and glass reached up and touched the sky. Tourists often thought the city was unusually cloudy, but we veterans of the city understood that it was smog; heavy and thick and descending lower each year. Before my children reached their fifteenth birthdays, the city would be swallowed whole by it. The inhabitants would take on owl-like characteristics in order to function. These thoughts crossed my mind as the bus rambled over the railroad tracks and past the factories that remained on the outskirts of town. I smiled at the roughness of the ride, closing my eyes and bringing the long manicured lawns of the suburbs vividly to my consciousness.

I hadn't seen them since I was a child myself. My parents had moved to the city in hopes of a better life, one filled with opportunities the distant suburbs simply couldn't provide. A new insight settled over my heart and brain. Their intentions had been good, just not well received. My son tapped my shoulder. "Momma, what is that?" I looked where he was pointing, hope and desire rising in my consciousness.

"Those, my dears, are a sight more welcome than any other. The green stuff on the ground is grass. The tall brown things waving their heavily laden branches in the wind are trees. Just like in the fairy tales I read to you as children." They sat silently, starring out the window. "And that is not the best part. In another hour or two, we will enter the country and you will see rolling hills, golden stalks of wheat, and cool blue lakes and streams."

*** Daily Writing Practice ***