Dialogue Essays - Freshly Cut Grass -- Dialogue Essays

Dialogue Essays - Freshly Cut blackleg The air sings with the fragrance of freshly cut grass. As a desktop to other things, children are at play, swinging too and fro, running and skipping in that location are toddlers who toddle and mindful mothers who watch on in direful and patient distraction. The sun is everywhere in the corners of the pavilion, bearing down on the tennis courts, caressing the flower beds, the convection of its heat pulling at the carpet-like lawns, drag out bodily its scent. Meanwhile the park flight attendant potters about, the days work done, slow to leave his eternal garden with its endless memories. Standing in the look of elm he drifts away, and some never comes back. He half-watches half-feels the gas bees bumble from flower to flower. Else where, there is great inactivity, and everyone is busy doing it to a degree weedy to perfection. The park flight attendant, a simple man in blue overalls, T- shirt, straw hat, blue pum ps and pockets full of silence, seeks out the cool of deeper shadow, retiring to the hidden certificate of his tool shed, where he sits in the stripy curve of a sound worn deck chair. Door ajar, pipe smouldering, gazing out into the summery knowledge base through eyes bright with the light of nearly wisdom, he surveys his earthly concern with unhurried care. A days grass cutting concluded, the park keeper presently plays part of an extra, superfluous to the tales needs, and knowing this, he fades from focus. Over a ways, cross legged, mounted on a blanket and hiding on the inside of a book, sits the person of Doris, who, like her name, is of another age. On display, for the humanity to see, like a dusty exhibit in the quiet, unvisited corner of a dead museum, she aw... ...im again. She saw him everyday for the rest of her life. It was all so tenacious ago, akin to a dream. It had been real enough though, and she is strangely thankful for it. thankful to have kn own existence, and felt the terrible pain of it. She can almost feel the echo of its sorrow. Doris is all but dead, and she all but knows it. The advance of her life is fuelled by a few remaining drops of hope, but heretofore they allow soon be exhausted. She stands to leave. Walking by the park keeper in his hide-away, he gives a smile of recognition. Of his routine, she knows it well. Next Friday he will once again mow the lawns, releasing their fragrance into the air, to fill the human with sweet perfume. Doris will be there, to breathe it deeply, gasping for more, until it fills her mind, until she becomes drunk, once again, with that smell of freshly cut grass.