10.25

The grass here has always grown faster and greener than other places. I think this is the place they scraped all the topsoil to when they built our home. This is where I stepped out this morning and caught the first unmistakeable smell of winter: that old, sharp, tremulous smell of snow about to fall. I mowed today. This will be the last time until spring, I figure. I'll finish tomorrow, because today I have to stand here and smell. This is where I cut the fast, green grass that holds out until the hard thaws. This is where I caught the last unmistakeable smell of summer: the cloying, sweet, open smell of cut grass. 

If you ever come home, I mowed the lawn for you. You should know that, because I'll be gone. If it's years from now and this spot has overgrown since, this letter will be all the proof I have. Maybe some part of you will mourn, then, in the patch of grass that always grows. Here, your heart will be too heavy, and you'll have to turn away, run, flee the memories you made. I just hope that in this place, at that time, you catch the smell of summer from the grass you crush as you spin to turn away from me and all the effort of keeping someone in your heart. I hope you catch the smell of summer because then I will at least have this last moment to share with you.
I know you'll have the smell of winter. You carry it always in your soul.