The Touch of Chopped Grass

Ya know. I like them there vidja games, and sum of those little animals. But what i like most is that feeling of sliced and diced grass just after the blade has struck.

Imagine a child, about seven or eight years old. A not-so-white T-shirt is hung on a petite frame not even large enough to serve as a toothpick. Pieced-together blue jeans barely touch the legs while the belt struggles to keep the pants from collapsing. Slap a pair of war-torn fifties cowboy boots on, shave the head, and add a coat of mud and stains, and you have me, as a kid.

I loved to roll around in the yard. As each blade of grass would coax my hair into a tangled mess, i would close me eyes and just pretend cloud nine was real....and made of grass. Bermuda Blue. Nothing was better than those special mornings when I would wake up to the worn out starter trying to turn over the engine, all the while sputting out fumes of thick, black, oil smoke. My dad didn't like me being outside, because the mower was too loud to hear anyone else around, so I would sit, away from the window, and wait for the orchestra of blade and gears to subside.

When the suspense had built up to the point of breaking, and of course when my dad was done, I would run as fast as my little legs could carry me and perform the "I'm on Fire" maneuver. Stop, Drop, and Roll. I didn't care if my shirt was new, or if I was clean. Those baby grass blades touched my soul. Nothing mattered in the endless ocean of the grass in my front yard. If I had live in the city, people would have thought that I was a big dog, scratching my back.

I wish I wasn't so allergic.