Like feathers, swirling up in long, billowing wisps. It didn’t have to be like the real world’s grass. It didn’t even have to be green. I would feel it under my feet, curling up around my ankles, pressed against me by the wind. That’s how real it was. And I would see it, bending and flowing under the current in waves, just like the prairies out in Oklahoma every summer. Only it’d be blue. My favorite blue. A kind of azure.

I would see myself, and my eyes would be this perfect golden brown. My hair would be long, flitting about my face wildly. But always perfect, never in my eyes or getting caught in my mouth. That’s how it was there—everything limitless, perfect and free. Just enough to make me look dangerous and make me feel strong.

Growing up, the backyard was a place for trampolines or catching minnows, always joined by friends. But when the wind hit just right, I’d lose sight of it all, leaning instead into endless, endless blue wilderness. Or I’d start to feel it at recess, out on the hot concrete—the feathery whips rapping around my arms as I rolled over hills, baking under a lavender sky (lavender because it was the softest and most bright).

It must have been sometime in middle school, the day I found the house. A cottage of old, worn stones and creeping ivy. I approached and watched myself greet an elderly woman at the door, as though we were old friends. She led me inside and showed me the things I had come for. Her home was crowded, detailed. I bumped my head on bundles of dried fruit, roots braided into ropes of yarn, bottles of herbs and juices all hanging from hooks in the ceiling or filling the racks and tables and floor. She passed withered hands over her collection, naming and explaining how to grow this, how to cut that, when to take a bite here or whether to drink from those. Outside, we kneeled in soil, digging with our hands. I could feel it so vividly—the cool, wet soil of my land.

Through middle school, through high school, I ran. Out, towards the horizon, into mountains. I discovered cities, then kingdoms. Discovered politics, ambition, losses and need. I found myself wars. Years and years of so many wars. Between us and them. Between us. Between me. And all the while my valley gave me the spices to fill my pockets and the nectar to extract. My valley fed me, sustained me, healed me. Back in my New York apartment, resting on my bed and wondering how or what to finish, or who or how to call, I would breath in the scent of lavender from a lavender sky and let blue feathers sweep across my arms.

My vigor, my assuredness, waned. I found myself wondering where these houses came from, or those roads. I would ask her, the woman, when I came for my things, what lies further. Was I fighting the right wars on the right sides? Would there be more? Who was she, and did she know me? I traveled further, until finally I passed the horizon and stepped out into real blue skies and green, prickly grass that I hardly ever lied down in.

It’s been decades since I was home, in that valley. Tonight the cicadas are almost alone in their noise. When I concentrate, I can make out my husband’s soft snores from one side of the house and a gentle, rhythmic swish in the kitchen behind me. The other side of the house is silent. A light under one door tells me our Danny’s still up, still working on his English essay. Sarah must be asleep.

There is no wind, but the rug feels uneven, almost like soil and grass on a hillside. The fabric of the couch is corduroy. It feels softer, and softer. The house is so still, it leaves me in solitude. The air is fresher, the sky is brighter and more beautiful than any blue sky of earth. She is not here, the woman, and I step inside the cottage. I see myself—jeans, shirt, sneakers, a bun—and I feel old. But I feel safe. Resting on the table is a bottle of the nectar that I used so often in my youth. The roots that healed me in so many battles hang from the ceiling, tied into knots in a line of yarn. I trace my fingers, not yet withered, over my collection and I wonder if Danny or Sarah will ever find such a place. Surely they have homes of their own already. I can only wonder what spices and potions to send them.