The Sympathy of Brown Grass

The affection for the grass

Is what keeps her there

It’s broken

Brittle

Bitten blades

The way it crackles

In the heat

And falls apart

Creating patches

Of nothing but nothing

The grass was not symbolic

That would be too easy

But it’s possible it was--

Indicative

It might be suggesting something

She takes in some coffee

And thinks about

Making lunch

But it’s half past two now

And lunch will mean no dinner

And no dinner will mean waking up

In the middle of the night

Going on a hunt

For whatever’s at the back

Of the fridge

She has a special fondness

For the backyard

Even though there isn’t as much brown grass out back

As there is

In the front of the house

The back is fenced off

And the neighbors on all sides

Are dead

Or moved out

A long time ago

Houses for sale

With prices on them

Higher than anyone would pay

She’s the last of the old neighborhood

The last who remembers barbecues and block parties

Or maybe she made it all up

In one of her extensive, afternoon

Imaginings

She looks at her garden

Next to the treehouse

Where Danny’s buried

And she resents how easy it is

To grow something there

She walks over and grabs a turnip

Wondering if a little bit of her husband

Is stuck inside it

She takes a bite

And for a brief second

Thinks that maybe

She’s bitten into a worm

Or worse--

A finger

But no

Just the turnip

Life will not be exciting

Not today

Nto any day

She climbs into the treehouse

And pushes aside

The pile of obituary clippings

She’s left here

Over the years

There’s a pillow

And a blanket

And she settles herself in

For a nap

That will turn into sleep

She’ll wake up in the middle of the night

No lunch

No dinner

No energy to climb down
And raid the fridge

Or crawl in bed

Or forget the day

Or the days before

Or the days before that

She looks through a hole

In the treehouse ceiling

And looks for a star

Any star

But the sky is clear

And a plane hasn’t gone by

In more than a few years

Still, she reaches up

And points a finger

At the expanse

Wondering what you wish on

When you have no stars

Should you close your eyes?
Should you keep it a secret?
Should you never tell

A living soul

She makes a wish

And lets time arrive

A bit too late

She thinks of the grass

And how it won’t go away

It’ll die out

It’ll discolor

It’ll break and crack

And fall apart

It wants to remind her

That there’s a price to pay

For forgetting

And the price is what stays on

What’s left over

Long after you’re ready

To let it all go