To me grass is something you mow, and maybe rake up after mowing,
though I never bothered with raking. To her, grass is something to love.

The
day before yesterday, she’d worked on the narrow strip of grass between the
sidewalk and the street.Yesterday it briefly snowed, so she went inside, but before the snow
she’d been tending the small lawn around her modest home, precisely
snipping at it with hand-clippers that look like oversized scissors.This morning the snow is gone, it’s 40 degrees out,
but we’re still we’re at winter’s doorstep. If I tilt my head to an awkward
position, from my window I can barely see one corner of her lawn — and
there she is, manicuring individual blades of grass.

Freedom means each of us choose what we care about, and that woman
cares about her lawn. I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t matter
whether I understand. All that matters is her passion, and I respect
that woman’s passion.

It’s time for my walk in the brisk A.M. air, so I went around the
block in the other direction, sneaking up on her and watching from a
distance. I could see my own breath in the chill, but yup, there she
was, bent over, using her hand-held snippers to perform a delicate
surgical procedure on the grass.

I looked at her yard, really looked for the first time, and here’s what I saw:

In color and texture and depth, she does have the
best-looking damned lawn in the neighborhood. It’s a thick, deep green
with no brown spots, no bald spots, no crabgrass, no dandelions, and
there’s not even one leaf to be seen, though it’s autumn and leaves are
everywhere else in the city.

“You have a very nice lawn!” I said, walking past on the sidewalk.
She didn’t say anything, but she looked up and waved at me. Then she
resumed snipping at her lawn.10/26/2020   
Republished: 1/31/2024