It was so long, waist high almost.
She had come back from a walk with the dog
and she looked at her rented property and thought
"It looks like no one lives here, it doesn't look like I live here; I'm going to get a weed eater and mow it all down."
On the back part of the front lawn there was a
gently swaying patch of shimmering grass.
It was starting to flower with soft tender fluff on its tips.
The buttercups were splatters of vivid color
complemented by purple clover.
The trimmer was much too small for this "unruly mess".
She noticed Judith's yard beside, just freshly mowed by her son. it was brush cut short, beige with yellowish moss underneath the stubble. The property line was very very clear.
She knelt down in the far north west corner of the 10x50 foot patch wanting to uncover the clean line of the fence and white stucco wall.
She reached out and gently patted it down, it was like hair curiously, she stroked another handful and tucked it under and then insistently began to french braid the locks of variegated green.
There was second row inquisitively laid down
as she ran to get a band aid for a wounded finger.
The third row, my hands grew greener as the fingers sliced through the strands and put them in place,
feeling quite ridiculous but compelled to continue.
Suddenly in the fourth row a rush of enthusiasm came though. The sun was hot on her arms and legs.
This row curved and cradled the other three.
The partings looked like a golden scalp.
Tenderly, purposefully sculpting and beautifying.
mmersed in the action of the moment;
She worked steadily for five hours straight.
The braids were reminding her of a heritage of braids.
Her mothers braids, grandmothers braids, even great grandmothers braids. Braids of restraint and restriction, tight braids with no loose ends allowed.
Her Mennonite grandmothers as little girls smiling bright under the orderly, tight rows as their mothers hands pulled firmly. Her great grandmother tiny silver braids under her daughters dry, cracked hands.
The rows led into a weedy bouquet
wound in place by a strand of grass.
It looked like a rug springing joyfully under her feet.
In the midst of desperate tasks and changes and responsibilities, she braided the grass and it was for motherhood, for our Earth Mother, for herself.
She smiled and sat down, "NOW, the lawn was beginning to look as if I lived here!"