Once

Are you there?

Once, my fingers curled around chunks of grass,

ripping them from the ground, 

throwing them carelessly in the air—

the blades squeaking in my palm as my hands curled to fists.

I remember the pale green juice they bled, 

getting everywhere, staining everything:

my fingertips, my knees, my elbows,

denim, cotton, and skin.

Did you know that grass may be the oldest living organism on Earth?

I'd believe it.

I heard that somewhere once. I don't remember where. 

Are you listening?

Well, I remember watching the strands float down to the ground, falling through the sky,

admiring the contrast between the great blue of the sky and the great green of the grass.

Great, all of it great.

You know, it’s funny. 

These memories are from when I was a little kid,

but when I watch them in my head, I look the same as I do now. 

Or close enough. Sans the tubes.

Isn’t that funny?

Now I just try my best to remember the smell.

You know the one, it’s strong and earthy and sharp;

dirt and lawn clippings. 

I can hear the lawn mower. I can feel the freshly cut grass whipping my legs, 

but I can’t smell it anymore. 

I know that there was a smell. I remember liking it. But it eludes me. 

Sorry, I got distracted. What was I saying? 

Can you h