The Sound Of Summer Green

The smell of freshly cut grass reminds me of my father – those long summer days when he cut ever decreasing geometric shapes with the riding lawnmower, row after row on our five acres, followed by purple martins eager for the feast of displaced insects.

The mechanical song of my father’s yard work was the background music to my summer childhood. I’d wake to it in the mornings or fall asleep to it during lazy midday catnaps; I’d talk over it on the phone or to my mom and brother. I could tell by the sound whether he faced the house or away. I knew when he turned a tight corner, lifted the blade and shifted to reverse. I’d call him in to dinner when my mom said it was time, only to hear him start the mower back up, racing the fading daylight to finish in the near dark. Finally, I’d hear the tones increase as he came closer and closer, approaching the house; the blade would lift just at the edge of our cement, as he pulled into the garage. And then, when he turned the key, the startling quiet was such a contrast to the hours of chanting hum.

When I’m driving and I catch a whiff of that fresh, clean grass smell, it brings him back to me so intensely, usually with a smile, sometimes with tears. A little girl part of me thought, hoped, my dad would be “out there,” figuratively speaking, cutting the lawn forever, somehow unreachable by death. Now, nine years later, I realize how deep the imprint was of the security I felt as a child just knowing that my father was near, hearing the tangible evidence of his presence – in something as simple as the sound of a lawnmower.

I miss him. I miss looking up from my play outside or watering the garden or out a window to see him sitting tall on the mower, wiping his brow with his forearm, listening to his Walkman, swatting deer flies and singing along to himself. I miss running to take him water with lemon or ice tea as a cool surprise. I miss the almost silver sheen of the new rows he cut and watching his moving meditation; the maze, the mandala he created. I miss my father, alive and well.

We share so many small moments and memories with our loved ones. I was 22- years-old when my 53-year-old father died of pancreatic cancer. What I wouldn’t give now to have him hand me a glass of lemon water as I trace his footsteps in my life. Such a soft smell, cut grass and yet, it cuts right to the heart. I am full of love and longing.

Amy Tranchida is a Freelance Writer and Ballroom Dance Instructor. She has BA in Creative Writing and Literature. Amy teaches dance and yoga in the Metro Detroit area, and can often be found climbing mountains, hiking, dancing and writing about what connects us all – love. Email Amy at atranchida@hotmail.com