Grass houses

“I won’t stay here any longer.” Ola stormed out, bits of sod
falling onto her shoulders. She brushed them as she ran toward the field.

Esme called from the back doorway, “What’s the matter, love?”

“It’s too dark! Why do we live in a place covered in lawn, Gramma?”

Ola had returned to the family home after college. It was only she and
Gramma left.

Esme’s shoulders slumped. “It’s what I have.” She looked up with more spark
in her eyes. “And I love that nature chooses to be with us. Buildings and
nature together. Meeting halfway.”

Ola scuffed a grass clod with one toe and returned toward her beloved Amma. Hand
over her mouth, she giggled. “You know you sound crazy.” She looped an arm
around the sturdy older woman’s shoulders.

“I was just going to make cinnamon cookies. Care to join me?” Esme asked.

Back in the warm, steamy kitchen, several lamps produced a golden glow. Two small windows looked out onto green fields. 

The two rolled out dough and cut circles.

“We could clear a part to make it less … oppressive for you.” Esme shoved a
spatula under a thin round on the floured table top of thick, worn wood.

“Could you bear it, Amma?” Ola asked, pulling out a cookie sheet. “To clear
any?”

“We can just move things around,” Esme said, placing a cookie on the sheet.  

“And I can have a garden outside my room?” Ola asked. “And we can get
internet?” She had to bike to town to get online.

“Oh, well, now.” Esme put the first pan load in the oven. “Get internet. Hm.”
Closing the old-fashioned oven, she straightened. “I’m not sure the chickens would
like that.”

Ola studied her face. “Now you’re joking.”

Esme winked as she poured them tea.