He tells her that one must water the lawn once or twice a week, deeply, but infrequently. Give it enough to quench the thirst, but not enough to drown it, to spoil it, just enough to keep it wanting. Those blades of grass will grow higher, forever reaching for more sustenance, more water, more, more, more.

When summer comes, she stands on the lawn, barefoot with blades of grass coming up between her toes, and as he holds the hose and aims the nozzle, as streams of water arc into the air, she lies down and becomes the grass. She feels the slopes of the earth under her, the open cavities where the worms travel beneath her, and she lets the water wash over her and into her and under her. 

He doesn’t notice, he’s too focused on the weeds. Tricky bastards, they come up slowly, one or two at first, and then you look away and back and the soft brown soil is littered with jagged leaves of green, working their way out. She’s got weeds for brains, she knows it, has always known it, she can feel them growing up through her head, and he is here on his knees, bending  over her, and then his hands are in there, fingers probing and pulling.

He does this over and over, waters and weeds, until fall when he moves on to the leaves. He rakes them with care, into a tidy pile, covering her completely. From underneath she can see the leaves, really see them, the veins of each one, and for a moment it’s all so beautiful, and she is everything, the leaves and the grass and the dirt, but then she sees the tiny holes where bugs have eaten through, and where the edges are yellow and curling inward, and he is yanking on the mower cord until it comes to life.

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Header photography and artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson