• The hills are a dusty grey-brown as the once vibrant mustard stand with their naked arms outstretched and praising the heavens. The sky’s overcast, her touch clean and fresh after a quick shower. The old trees show off their green leaves to her, popping out against the crisp nothingness of the air. I close my eyes, sighing in contentment. Mom once pointed to the sky’s downy grey hair brushing the gnarled fingers of the trees, turning them soft and new.“That’s why I love green and grey.” She said. “That’s why.”

    I don’t like grey and green, never but now. As I swing back a soft rain falls on my lifted face and washes away my fears. I forget about school and Brett over in Iraq. About the searing sun that is sure to come in a few weeks. The noise of the freeway dies away and its accidents cease. The water washes away the stress and pains that come with life here. I forget that most people around me don’t understand why I believe what I believe. I soar with freedom. The rain stops but my mind stays clear like the sky’s summer face. I smile, this is why I love grey and green.

    Beneath me the swing keeps up its slow, rhythmic pace.