Trickle to Flood

She reminded him of his grandmother, stoic and unwavering, if he didn’t know any better he’d have thought her to be a statue, motionless and cold with not much as a glint of life to be detected. As she perched herself in a worn dining room chair with the plastic that covered the padding beaten and oozing from years of poor treatment and being taken for granted, her chin near to the point of touching her seasoned upper chest in a gesture fit for a royal introduction to follow proper etiquette and respect to the dignified.

Her kingdom would be nothing more than the edge of her driveway next to a busy city thoroughfare. The staff made of rubber, green in color, 50 feet worth of green dictatorial control. He brazenly stared at the woman, studying, concentrating, curious and vulnerable. He had an overwhelming need to embrace her warmly with his arms and his lean body. He kept his distance though as this is what he always did in times such as these where he his mentality placed in check and overruled any emotional outreach no matter the amount of yearning that stems from deep in his conscience.

The patch of grass sprang out of the soil like an oasis in the middle of the Serengeti. Dry and foreboding, the dirt had anger and envy in its abruptly shifting breathe. Aside from the occasionally errant spray, the arid environment stays void of moisture. For the plush foliage which had thrived with all of the attention and care, it rose unkept and organic into the smothering sky. Only a square foot by a square foot, the grass blades conquered their surroundings from their ritualistic watering by the matriarchal statuesque maiden.

Still with a drooping head and an even lower sense of self-worth, she raised her head high and shifted in her seat. It was a man who appeared to be her husband. He was similar in age and race and walked with a heavy gate. They interacted, a few nods and then she went back to her grass patch and slinking posture. He would have to leave, but he knew he would be back soon.

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