The Morning Reading: Summer

Summer
by Mark Perlberg

I am watching the gardener trim our lawn. He pushes a mower
with a wooden handle over the grass, making dark stripes where
he cuts. The blades purr, sending up a little stream of green
as he pushes and pulls the mower forward and back. The green
arc sprays into a canvas grass catcher hooked to the mower's
wheels. I sit on the steps and tease a beetle with a blade
of grass as it moves up the slate walk. On the long summer days
between the times when the gardener comes with his truck and
his men to trim and edge the lawn and cut the long hedges, I
cut the grass, pushing our wooden mower. Or maybe I only dream
it, because I am very young and the sweet grass smell engenders
dreams. I water the lawn with the long rubber hose, sending
a fine buzz of water tickling down my arm, dripping on my sneakers.
Each day is stretched, is strangely long, and when the sun presses
on the tops of the trees at the edge of town, it floods the lawn
with the clearest watery light. Mother talks with someone on the
porch. Their voices blend with the purr of the mower and the
hiss of the water. The house is cool and airy. The winter
rugs and drapes and bedspreads have been taken up and stored in
the attic. The chairs wear cool summer coverings that are crisp
and shine a little in the afternoon light. We still live in the
big brick house at the head of the street. Father hasn't died yet.

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