Wheatgrass and Dirt

    I sit in the confines of an almost broken plastic chair, feelings the legs bend under my weight. Except as much as I notice it, I don't care. It's better than sitting on the ground and getting my shorts wet with the morning dew. I look out onto the acreage of my grandfather's land. So many memories come sweeping over me. Or maybe that's just the wind picking up.
    I pluck a piece of wheatgrass from the overgrown patch in front of me and begin to strip it of the green seeds. I remember playing with the miles of wheatgrass as a kid. I remember braiding them into crowns for me and grandma. She would place it on top of her neat curls, and I'd place it on top of my matted mess of hair. Oh, how much simpler those times were. When it only took a grass crown for me to be transported into dreams.