In spite of how strange it must look, I turn off the mower and stand in the middle of the lawn with my eyes closed.
The smell of grass clippings transports me. I’m ten years old again, walking through my father’s field. The sweat that drips into my eyes is not from pushing a mower, but from lifting and throwing bales of hay under a blazing June sun.
Haying seemed such hard work at the time. Today I mow the lawn again. Not because the grass is all that tall, but so I might go back, if only for a moment.