A PATCH OF CLOVER

Cormac Foster Morrison

The UPS guy is talking to John across the street. I'm trying to make straight lines with the lawn mower and not sneeze. He's stopped to talk with the package in his hand, held like a waiter's serving tray. Brown shorts and boots match the tan. The truck idles. I turn the mower and start back across the lawn, around the sycamore, deliberately over the chunk of tree branch - thwack and a cloud of dust, the smell of burnt wood. I am the master of this patch of earth, as the truck continues down the road, bare leg and boot hanging out the open driver's side door. I put my back to him. John continues to slump in the plastic chair just outside the front door. Brand new Yankee cap-wonder where that came from. His friend from high school, the famous actor with the street named after him, lies somewhere else in dementia, his days hanging out with John now more his present than his movies. This line across the lawn brings on a feeling of having been here before. Have I cut this patch of grass a hundred times yet? How long before I'm falling asleep on my front steps?

John's pencil drawing of the happy daschund smiles out at countless babies sleeping in their beds including mine.