Grass. What a funny word to write about at the end of November, so close to winter. If I had to summarize spring and summer in a single word, grass might be my choice. How does something so soft, so crushable, so yielding push up through packed dirt? This impossibility happens. Insistent fresh green armies, perennially claiming their share of the sun and rain. Grass grows thick and generous through the summer. Silk stockings feel rough and suffocating compared to the caress of summer grass on bare feet. The scent of grass clippings. The look of the lawn in tidy stripes after a mowing: a patch of earth dreaming of Fenway Park.
Cartwheels in the grass wearing no shoes – I grasp summer with my palms and soles. Lying in the soccer fields, watching for shooting stars, coolness rising up the grass and stealing into my bare legs. Not cold enough to leave this glittering theater, but enough chill to sit up, stretch my sweatshirt over my knees and hug my arms around them, rubbing away the goosebumps and the marks left by the imprint of the grass, and keep talking, keep talking, keep talking, all through the night.
What is Present, not precious?