Mowing the Lawn



  • It's an early Sunday afternoon in September. Today, we mow the grass for possibly the last time this year. I smell the blood of the wounded grass oozing from the broken stalks mixed with the burning gasoline of the lawnmower's engine. For the past summer and spring, I've tried to convince myself that this is humbling work and good, as it benefits the owners and dogs who tread upon the grass we mow. However, it seems I can't fully believe my lie. As I witness the snakes and grass slicing under the mower and the fossil fuels burning in the name of comfort, I simply cannot see a true success at the end. The only ones it benefits are the sad, genetically terrorized animals we keep as pets. Dead leaves fall upon the dead and living pieces of grass alike, often being chopped into small shreds. The hot sun harshly smiles it's focused rays upon my back, and I perspire. The beautiful meadow before me falls into the idealized western maintained yard. It looks terrible. Finally, after hours of slicing and killing and polluting, I stare at my work and wish only to take it back, even if it means I worked for nothing.

    It's a cold december morning with a light dusting of snow on the ground. I think back to when I had to mow the grass and shudder at the mere memory. The dead and gloomy winter before me is a fitting scene to follow such an act. The grass in front of me lies flat and brown, having been stomped into a path and dusted with snow. It reminds me of the dead leaves that slipped beneath the blade. The trees that bore the leaves now stand empty and dead; a truly hollow sight. The dip in the center of the yard, bare and naked without grass, looks as though the Earth has begun to sink inward, producing a dreary basin. The world around me displays all definitions of the word dead, nearly standing still as my eyes dart across the depressing scene; only the calm nighttime breeze causes any movement. Just like the rest of my surroundings, the beast of the mower has gone silent. However, it's echoes can be heard, even felt, on this very day, several months later on Christmas eve. Loud slaughter has been replaced by silent death; a powerful metaphor indeed.


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