I'm often looking at the backside of someone's head. Waiting, on the train platform, or perhaps in a crowded conference room. Usually something's about to happen, or something else is about to stop. These moments don't last long, there are just a lot of them. However, I've become quite patient.
One morning, while en route to the airport for a flight I was destined to miss, I glanced nervously out the cab's window. An entire field of yellowed marsh grass seemed to be combing itself, using only the wind as it's brush. I blinked, and looked again to be sure.
It looked like hair. Lots of hair blowing effortlessly in the wind. Cowlicks, greasy matted teenage hair, stringy dry desperate hair that's mysteriously disappearing. The more I looked, the more chest hair I saw. Golden shimmering chest hair, intimate tufts, and dusty tunnels emerging only for a moment, then fading away into the blades of dead grass.
What I saw was so familiar, it was difficult to convince myself that it was only grass. In the weeks that followed, I would spend a great deal of time in those marshes; waiting patiently for the grass to come alive again, and become more than just grass. Or, maybe it was just the wind.
