Before I discovered the comfort of cushy chairs—back when I was nine, and didn’t realize that my joints needed fat padding for comfort—I had the moss patch. It was a perfect hiding place, surrounded on all sides by grass almost as tall as I was. The ground was soft, bright green moss straight out of a Russian fairy tale about a vain princess who wore a necklace of captured souls. I could sit, lie down (if I curled up around my fairy tale book) or attempt headstands, which I never did master.
Grasses get mown, or eaten by a stray cow. Moss dries out and the rocks beneath them cut through. The spines peel off old fairy tale books and young girls move on to V.C. Andrews and Stephen King.
But sometimes, you can go back and catch a glimpse of the brightest green you’ve ever known.