19.8.23
The ground loves me.
Maybe its because my mum taught me how to cloud gaze or because Dad
encouraged me to rootle around potato plants hunting for ladybirds before I
could talk. Maybe the ground loves me because it thought I loved it so much.
When a little older I’d lie on it under the shade of a Kowhai or blackcurrant
bush and read – for long stretches. I certainly lingered face down on it through
long weekends at Swain’s farm learning to ride a two wheeler.
As I got older the ground became the means of purchase for my hurrying,
maybe I just haven’t paid enough attention to the old friend that heard my
childish joys and woes. I always tell it how I love it’s perfume in rain after
hot days and thank it for the roses and citrus it grows for me.
The ground is not satisfied.
Lately it has been more assertive to regain my attention. Leading a
class from Chapel one week a power cord colluded to provide a close
conversation. Winded, I barely noticed that my skirt was up and my head was
down. A couple of lovely Yr8 boys grabbed me under my arms and hurriedly lifted
me, returning the hem to it’s proper place. With a group of colleagues, walking
to parent teacher interviews after school, I found myself hugging my old friend
again. The ground found itself insulted at how fast others try to get me away
from it.
I only pray that this jealousy for my attention does not lead to an
early, permanent intimacy. I feel that lying around on it a bit more, cloud
gazing and reading, may stay the ground’s desperation for that exclusive
friendship.
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