when the grass grows green in West End

Crunch under my feet went the little burnt-orange shoots pushing their way stubbornly through the cracked cement footpath.

My brother crouched down and gently plucked one. He closed his eyes and took a whiff. He straightened and I just knew I was about to be imparted with that older sibling wisdom – again.

“See, there is definitely not a drought,” he said, waving the evidence in front of me like a priest on Palm Sunday.

“As long as there is grass growing in West-End there is not a drought.”

Crunch crunch crunch.

That to me did not sound like green pastures.

It didn’t even sound like a single healthy sprig.

No, that there was the sound of dead-as-dead, crunchy stuff. I don’t know if it could even be called grass.

But I sucked it in.

Instead, out came the harmless look of approval and the subtle change of subject.

“So it’s peppermint tea you like, hey Sam?” I say, gently guiding him into The Shire tea house.

Call me a wimpy little sister, but I love my big brother and his out-of-this-world ideas.

Perhaps that day will come when the grass grows green in West End.

Until then, I’m content to be refreshed by the unrealistic ramblings of my brother the optimist.