Jemima had come to the cliffs to do one thing. Her heart was a vacancy. She skirted the edge of the earth, as close as she could get to air. The grass was far too long where she walked, as no one could get near it enough to cut it, and, she guessed, no one would really care either way. On the tops of the grass stalks were puffy dandelion heads, shivering, too delicate against the chopped up wind. She kicked through the grass, but rather than disintegrating, the grass spores simply waved and sprung back upright. She wondered at how the world could be so overwhelmingly optimistic.
She came to the place she had decided on; a rocky outcrop that stuck out just below the land’s lip, hidden by its own shape. She fingered the fabric of her summer dress—chosen long ago in a shop with high walls, and took her final steps onto solid earth.
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