I found the strangest thing in my pocket Well, maybe it wouldn't be strange for some people, but for a confirmed city dweller like me a fresh blade of green grass is not what I'd expected to find. I'd been looking for a kleenex to wipe the city grime from my face and found instead this interloper - this reminder of a life I'd chosen not to live.
I examined it. Vibrant green. An in-your-face kind of green that even the limes in the green grocers have the good sense to cover up with city dust. There were lighter veins of color, too. And when I squinted at the blade I could see an entire rainbow of color trapped in the slender stalk.
It was crisp like lettuce served on ice and, when I snapped it between my fingers it released a fragrance that was indescribable. Fresh, clean. It brought to mind a cotton sheet hung taut on a line, snapping in the bleaching sun.
How did it find its way into the pocket of my coat? How did it come survive the city and in its broken-ness -- its loss of roots -- seem to thrive? Where had I been that it could have inserted itself into my pocket like a parasite catching a ride on an unsuspecting host?
I looked at the blade of grass - now in two pieces - resting in the palm of my hand. I lifted it up so I could see it, the window and the city outside of the train car. Perhaps it was a commuter like me.
My stop. My two pieced new friend and I stepped onto the platform. I opened my hand and like the single sheet of newspaper or the plastic bag held aloft by unseen forces, the grass continued its commute on the wind.