Grace goes out into her landlord’s garden, his backyard, her front. Tonight she is barefoot, better to feel the damp earth beneath her feet, to breathe it in, to know that she is grounded.
She walks slowly toward the stone bench at the center of the garden, cataloging every sound, every sensation. The song of the cicadas, the smell of hydrangea and ripe tomatoes, the humid air that orchids and mosquitoes love.
Grace feels her hair curling and freeing itself from the barrette she used to get it off her neck. She feels herself unfurling as she makes her ritualistic communion with nature. Her sleeplessness has given her this one gift–being the only person enjoying the garden at this hour.
She reaches the stone bench and she sits, slouches, rubs her feet in the dirt, making circles, first clockwise, then counter. Sometimes she sings to herself, sometimes she prays. Tonight she simply meditates on the sound of the crickets rubbing their legs together to attract a mate.
Lying back on the bench, she opens her eyes to the sky as dark as it gets in the city. Not many stars to see tonight, but she notices the moon is full.
This felt different when she was younger. She could practically predict the waxing and waning of the moon by her emotional state; she could feel the pull of the tide in her womb. But tonight, as she lies on her back gazing up at the full moon, she is surprised to see it there. She feels nothing at all. No passion, no anger. Just a bland steady wakefulness.
Golden Ladybug Stories 