The Mower

Alice had a thing for manicured lawns. Tight cross-hatch patterns to be precise, and she tried everything to emulate the downy green runways of the nearby neighbors. But she couldn’t seem to steer it the same way Christopher’s father could, with his valley of grass six blocks over. She tried a mower of old, with its loud belt and wheel rotations. The one’s that backfire and masticate the green threads until a home’s focal point, the show and tell of an entryway, appeared flat and finished. Roadway paint. That was in part the look she was going for, which she could achieve, but she wanted the coarse, imprinted lines of manual achievement. Mr. Adams’ lawn had lines in perfect symmetry; in and out loops that inspired confidence in invited guests. She was adept at the task. The home was maintained. There were patches of flowers, crude cross-bred bouquets she purchased pre-grown, and tall trees that were sheared some, when necessary. But the blade running lines were never visible, or misaligned or terribly out of focus. So they switched to a modern model, at Christopher’s behest because Alice had too many times since nicked her ankle or shin, enough to warrant worry and once requiring three stitches. Their new make performed much the same way and Alice took to blaming the elements; the mud, sod or soot that was procured to produce the grass. It was an easy argument to make, and one of Christopher’s own coaxing so that the chore itself would be less demanding on her.

There were points of procedure to her mowing. Her mother had lupus, and, as such, was always in hat. Alice learned to thwart the sun at a very early age and grew in the habit of wearing an oversized sun shade, usually loose and drooping in the summer seasons and at most points outdoors. Her hats made her visible, as she pushed the machine across the yard. There was a ketchup stain on the front brim, slightly sticky, from their morning breakfast. Christopher made an omelet. She, hating omelets, and even more their nausea inducing egg scent, shook some frozen potato patties onto a cookie sheet for when she finished mowing. She started early to escape the smell of egg, but in so doing, hurried past Christopher who was just then shaking the ketchup bottle. There was a smear of the viscous paste above her eye. She also hated ketchup.

“It was an accident,” he said, still shaking.

“It smells like shit in here.”

And she started up the mower for the third time that week.

Brooklyn

Overflowing shelves of records where Dylan, Zeppelin, Louis Armstrong and the Beach Boys commune together in quiet. A player of records yearning for a spin. Sturdy and heavy antique furniture. A gathering of guitars hidden in closets, in alcoves, on high shelves, waiting for an impromptu sing-along. The Oxford English Dictionary. The Chicago Manual of Style. Endless cookbooks. Three French presses and a baby crib in the back room. Baby-proofed outlets a well-loved sowing machine. Cabinets full of seasonings and spices. The fullness that comes to a space that does not hold a television or microwave. The claw foot tub and a dingy window casting warm light into the open kitchen.

They took the brand new baby and toddling son north to Alaska for fishing season, leaving for the summer high ceilings and white woodwork on the ground floor of a Brooklyn Brownstone's neat railroad apartment.

Loitering in their temporarily abandoned home on a pre-rain Saturday morning in July, I imagine myself filling their closets with my dad's old velor sweaters that I love unconditionally but rarely wear and picture myself sitting cross-legged at the low wooden kitchen table. I write honest letters to friends of my youth while my tea smokes steam into the dusty ray of light that shines across my fingertips. With my blue-ink pen, I paint portraits of buying flowers for the party and collecting chipped coffee mugs. I sit up straighter in my grandfathers old wooden desk chair. I let my hair grow longer and pull it back in a low ponytail, which my girlfriend sweeps softly to the side to kiss my neck each evening when she comes through the front door.

Away from the Brownstone, standing on the steps of our new Dupont apartment on Swann, I can already imagine my dad's sweaters hanging in our tiny, shared closet and decide to buy flowers for the kitchen.