While Hanna loved living in the city, she never forgot her roots, growing up on a sprawling wheat farm in the country. Whenever she got homesick, she poured herself a tall glass of sweet tea, tucked the old quilt her grandmother gave her under her arm, and headed to her tiny porch twenty stories up. There she spread the quilt on the steel slab and sat cross-legged, watching the breeze toss the tall green stalks she had transplanted on the porch ledge. Some city folks pot bright flowers in their concrete spaces. Not Hanna. Her planters were tiny wheat fields.
100 Words for Friday Fictioneers inspired by this photo prompt by © Ronda Del Boccio.