I have buried all my hatchets

The grass connects your body through toes wiggling to life in a black muddiness imparted by grass water. Cut grass turns tiny whorls of hair knotting around your thumb as if they were the hair of middle aged spinsters thrown out of the window in afternoon combing.

Back in home of childhood, boy roams the morning looking down for abandoned currency notes in the grass. On the off-chance that such abandoned currency notes fly from pockets and settle down in the spaces of grass leaves. Actually there is gap between off-chance and on-chance and never the twain shall meet. This childhood boy knew but did not like to know. He did not like to know that miracles did not happen. Boy of childhood did not care for hair whorls that smelled of coconut oil. Boy of old age recalled hair whorls on wiggling toes and felt they were coming back to life as grass whorls out of yesterday’s cut grass of mower.

The laburnum felt hurt on its bark when someone cut its bark without regard for its feelings. I applied a gentle imaginary balm on its wound. The tree shed imaginary tears and hugged me in my thought. The wound brought us closer to each other, each with own wounds. Its wound made me angrier than mine own. I felt picking up a hatchet and run after the villain who did this. But I did not have a hatchet. I have buried them all earlier.

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