And they don't yell. They don't complain. They don't call me names, or tell me weird stories about their uncle in Denver, or ask for a refund. They sing the song they sing when they're uprooted. It's kind of a song of loss, but that's okay. They were losing so much more by not being themselves.
The grass is still grumbling faintly about me being there... but even as I listen, that fades too. The grass chants grow, grow, grow, grow, and it's grass again.
The plants are healing. Brooke is home, and the plants are healing.
I stop weeding and close my eyes, drinking the sunlight through my eyelids. Around me the plants sing, and more have joined the harmony, and others will join it, too.
I helped fix something, for once.
Almost makes me wish I knew of something else that needed fixing so I'd be on my way to feeling this good again.
Not that I'm asking for a problem, Lord, I pray quickly. I'm fine with things the way they are.
I go back to pulling weeds, surrounded by the harmonies of green things.
This is ordinary.
Ordinary never sounded so good.
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