She didn’t mind when it all faded to grey. The impermanence of all that noise, the scattered thoughts broadcast for millions, the pigeons flying away before their eggs were hatched, leaving their internal homing device in the nest because they wouldn’t be coming back. Not this time.
She chose to stay. She chose let her toes become roots and her roots become earth and let moss creep up her legs. She would be a semi-permanent fixture here: a garden gnome, a St. Francis statue, a magnolia, a pile of bright yellow ginkgo leaves, scattered and wet on the sidewalk.
As the rest of them ran past, sneakers and boots kicking up dead brown leaves and crushing wild onions (their smell everywhere), she sat down in the dirt and called the ones she loved toward her. Their flesh was her flesh. The ground was the ground. Books were held in mud-streaked hands and dogs knocked over cobalt blue planters filled with pansies. She was home. She would bake. The things she loved were the blue sky and the red dirt and the rest of it was dust.