This one's from [Death] who sends his regards from his vacation in LA.
"Gramma rocked in her wooden chair on the wooden porch. Nearby was the rumble of cars. Things had been different in those days, she thought. There were no roads winding its way through the backyard woods, no exhaust belching from distant cities, no roar of airplanes as they shot by. No, the backyard was different in those days.Gramma closed her eyes against a flare of arthritis, and in her minds eye, she could see the wooden planks of the porch her grandfather had built himself; hear the chattering of animals--raccoons, squirrels, and grasshoppers; smell and feel the sweet summer wind lapping her face. The trees were pine, dotting the landscape with blotches of green and brown. No, the backyard was different in those days, she thought as she died."
-[Death]
