Growth and Grass

I mowed the lawn this morning then went for a run. On the way back I noticed that many of the neighbor’s yards are recently mowed and I heard a lawn mower droning somewhere in the background. It suddenly hit me that the stabbing pain that usually accompanies that sound and the smell of fresh cut grass was conspicuously absent.

The day Damon died we were driven home from the hospital to my grandparents’ house. I remember almost nothing, flashes of moments here and there, but I do remember someone was mowing their lawn. I remember thinking “how could someone be doing something so normal?” The sound and the smell are burned into my memory.

Much of my life fresh cut grass was one of my favorite things. My Papa is the kindest person I’ve ever known. He loves his lawn. It has always been lush and green and unbelievably soft.  A commonly repeated story in my family features my little blonde self searching his flower beds for snails to rescue them from the exterminator. He would always laugh his big beautiful open laugh as I worked my way through his perfectly groomed yard searching for the slimy things. His home almost always smelled of fresh cut grass and often he did, too.

Today, for one of the very first times somehow I was able to hold both feelings, both memories at the same time. I didn’t immediately run. I didn’t double over with agony.

The few authors I’ve read who I feel have been genuine in their writing about grief talk about how devastating grief grows you. It’s not a comfortable growth. It’s excruciating. It’s growth I don’t even want. I would give it back in a heartbeat but it’s true, you grow. I’ve grown and I’m slowly becoming able to occasionally hold both pleasure and pain, each becoming more intense with the effort.

Today grass is a marker of that growth.

Until next time…