Mowing My Life Away

Photo by Léon McGregor on Unsplash

We own 10 acres and mow two of those acres on a semi-regular basis. Ray was the main mower man and now I share the mowing with Armando my every-Friday yard and garden helper. More than a helper, actually.

Armando and I consult on why the riding mower won’t start, how fast or slow to mow through the tall grass to keep the mower from smoking, and whether he should use the weed-eater in the tough spots. A few weeks ago the mower clanged and smoked and Armando and I just looked at each other. It’s over 20 years old. I don’t know how old that is in mower years.

In early fall I park it and hope it will have a restful sleep and be ready to wake up next spring when the grass does. I also hope Armando will still be here.

Early summer mornings are my favorite time to mow. But before mowing I’ve learned the hard way I must first check the gas tank and the tires. And the gas cans. If they're empty I load them in the truck and go to the gas station and fill them. I don’t fill the big one, because when it’s full I can’t lift it into the truck. I turn on the compressor and squirt air into a low tire.

Ear protection on, the world is still out there yes, but no longer in my head, all I can hear are the mower blade and engine. I’m a humming island floating over the earth, putting things right. Symmetry means no ragged edges. When the grass complies and I turn to look behind me thoughts come.

Like, yes I am making a difference, even though death is riding along, cutting a wide swath of grief. I’m grateful for the friends who have offered help; therapists, grief counselors. I’ve been advised to be on the lookout for grief fallout. But I resist, especially the anxiety drugs. For now I’m centered by keeping the plants alive with punctual watering, and thinning, an ironic maneuver. While I wait for death to arrive, I choose who dies, frail zinnia, gangly dill.