The Sea
When I walked out into my front yard, I noticed my neighbor, Theodore, watering his grass. I went and got my hose and began watering my grass. What are you doing he said. Watering my grass I said. But you don’t need to he said. You have an automatic sprinkler system. You have a lawn service spread fertilizer. You have people who come to cut it. You have, without a doubt, the nicest lawn on this block. You may have the nicest lawn in this town he said. I held onto my hose and looked at my lawn. He was right, it was nice color green, it was of a proper length; it looked strong, thick. A bird landed on it once, and the grass wrapped itself around the bird’s legs, and the bird sank in, leaving only a few feathers behind. Neighbor’s dogs disappear when they use my lawn as a bathroom. My lawn is a carnivorous murderer, and I can only watch helplessly as it grows stronger. I shudder to think if I had children. I suppose you’re right I said. Theodore nodded and shrugged. I nodded and shrugged. I put the hose down, and I lied down on my lawn, and I watched the evening sky, and I listened to Theodore whistle and water his safe lawn, and my back got wet and I smiled at the tingling feeling when you lie down in grass.
