The Whispering Grass

As wind tumbles through long, dry grass; as blades drag across each other like an untuned, frantic orchestra, trying to keep time with a fickle and unruly conductor; as the clouds shift angrily above, never quite able to express their rage and so convulsing in greys and blacks, a tired sun nears the end of today’s journey, and the movement in the grass becomes half-whispered words.

They say the grass is fickle, that it can be wicked, but it’s neither. It just puts voice to what you already believe, makes you face your dark thoughts. It doesn’t demand you succumb to them. It doesn’t tempt you with easy solutions, it just shows you what you already know, but won’t acknowledge.

She said to take a walk at dusk. She said to go in with a clear head. It’s dusk at least. If I could have a clear head I wouldn’t be out alone, seeking counsel from vegetation.

Amelia has often wondered how much of it really happened, and how much was the fantasy of a child, made real by confirmation bias, the unreliability of human memory, and her determination to believe. She never really knew whether she'd heard the voices or if they were just in her head, but the uncertainty, or possibly just the memories of her childhood, has kept her away from this place for decades. Being back feels like a dream.

It's as though the colour and contrast are turned right down. That might be because that's how she remembers it, and so is how she expects it to be. A small part of her reluctantly concedes that it's more likely to be simply because she's dying.