She still feels the pebbles that slipped between her toes. The smell of soil was only matched by that of the wildflowers, marching amongst the armies of tall grass. She still feels the warmth of her lantern bringing life to the hills. Fireflies served as street lamps, guiding the rolling plains to the horizon. She still feels the land, only a fading memory in the distance. Her flowers now strokes of crimson red, her hills just smears of emerald green. Memories are merely framed and hung dreams. Her granddaughter points to the painting on the wall. “What is that grandma?”