The Stripes

I mowed the lawn in stripes. I'd read about it. You mow toward the street, then away, and the bent grass catches the light. It took two hours. They're just straight lines, but from the sidewalk it looked like a ballpark.

The mail carrier stopped at the box and said, "Nice stripes."

I said thanks like it was nothing, which it wasn't, it was two hours.

She said, "Looks professional."

And she went to the next house.

I stood there a long time. In thirty years, nobody has said a word about my lawn. Not once. Not even to be mean.

I haven't mowed since. That was six weeks ago. I know what you're thinking. I'm thinking it too. But what if I do it again, and it's not as good? It isn't just the grass. It's the compliment. It's in there. It's in the lawn. If I cut it, I might cut that.

The grass is up to my knees. Yesterday, the mail carrier looked at the lawn and said, "Wow."

I don't know which way she meant it.

I'm choosing the first way.