When I was five I used to picture my grandma as a swamp monster, inspired by sitting in her muggy greenhouse for hours at a time as I "helped" her garden as much as a five year old could. Her hair would always end up this sweaty, stringy mess that looked more like the off-white yarn she knitted with than actual human hair.
I never expected to see that same creature I imagined sitting in my own conservatory, arms caked in dirt and trying to plant weeds in the upholstery of my rocking chair. She muttered under her breath the same way Grandma did, shuffling from chair to chair with her trowel and the tangled mes of green in her weather-beaten old basket.
I'll admit I left the conservatory quite sharply, not wanting her to see me, not knowing what she would do if she did see me and not wanting to find out. The following morning the only sign she'd ever been there was the footprints she left behind.
Somehow she had been heavy enough to crack the floor tiles, each footprint a splintered mess of ceramic.
I never expected to see that same creature I imagined sitting in my own conservatory, arms caked in dirt and trying to plant weeds in the upholstery of my rocking chair. She muttered under her breath the same way Grandma did, shuffling from chair to chair with her trowel and the tangled mes of green in her weather-beaten old basket.
I'll admit I left the conservatory quite sharply, not wanting her to see me, not knowing what she would do if she did see me and not wanting to find out. The following morning the only sign she'd ever been there was the footprints she left behind.
Somehow she had been heavy enough to crack the floor tiles, each footprint a splintered mess of ceramic.
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