The grass was dead now, but when I was younger the blades shone with the brightest hue. My mother used to tell me angels cried to get the grass that color, that without their tears the green would never become so shiny. I believed her. I believed a lot of what she told me, until she left. When I woke up that morning and found her gone, I started to realize she lied a lot, about little things. Big things, too. I try to tell myself she was doing her best, but she failed. We all failed, I guess.

I don’t walk past the house much anymore. It’s barely a house anymore, since being condemned. But I can still see the slants where my old room was, decaying now, under rain and strain. Funny. It still somehow feels like home.