Monday, November 03, 2003
Requiem for a Lawn Mower
(credits to Carlene for today's title... go and read her post)
Silence. Solitude. The hushed patter of feet on freshly fallen snow. Some squirrels. I awoke to find the grass submerged to the very depths of an avalanche. Over a hot bowl of macaroni and cheese, i gazed out the window and wept, the salt of my tears intensifying the savory goodness of the delectable mac. And i wept for my friend, the lawn mower.
Long nights to be spent in the frozen outpost of the garage. Sunny days of blinding white to be spent lonely and unproductive, longing for escape. Nothing but memories and the occasional magazine subscription to keep it company. Five months of psychological torture.
Suddenly i sprang to my feet. How could i have been so short-sighted? With a shudder i realized what i had done, and at that same moment i knew it was too late. Windblown snow was drifting up inside its mechanical entrails, melting and rusting its surgically precise blades to a dull butter-knife edge. Ice had taken hold of its joints, locking them in place unsalvageably. I had left the lawn mower out overnight.
The service was small; only a few who had truly known the lawn mower in this life were present. Few words were said; what words could possibly ease the pain? We talked about the good times, and then we all got into a snowball fight and lost all track of time, until finally, spring had arrived. In a phenomenon of reincarnation that calls to mind a phoenix or Frosty the Snowman, our lawn mower returned to us, wearing a rich cape of red velvet and riding on a pontoon boat. What joy we felt! A chorus of birds sang all around, until we started up the lawn mower and scared them all away. We mowed all the lawns from sea to shining sea. It was the most glorious event in history for about ten minutes, and then i went back inside to eat some ravioli.
(credits to Carlene for today's title... go and read her post)
Silence. Solitude. The hushed patter of feet on freshly fallen snow. Some squirrels. I awoke to find the grass submerged to the very depths of an avalanche. Over a hot bowl of macaroni and cheese, i gazed out the window and wept, the salt of my tears intensifying the savory goodness of the delectable mac. And i wept for my friend, the lawn mower.
Long nights to be spent in the frozen outpost of the garage. Sunny days of blinding white to be spent lonely and unproductive, longing for escape. Nothing but memories and the occasional magazine subscription to keep it company. Five months of psychological torture.
Suddenly i sprang to my feet. How could i have been so short-sighted? With a shudder i realized what i had done, and at that same moment i knew it was too late. Windblown snow was drifting up inside its mechanical entrails, melting and rusting its surgically precise blades to a dull butter-knife edge. Ice had taken hold of its joints, locking them in place unsalvageably. I had left the lawn mower out overnight.
The service was small; only a few who had truly known the lawn mower in this life were present. Few words were said; what words could possibly ease the pain? We talked about the good times, and then we all got into a snowball fight and lost all track of time, until finally, spring had arrived. In a phenomenon of reincarnation that calls to mind a phoenix or Frosty the Snowman, our lawn mower returned to us, wearing a rich cape of red velvet and riding on a pontoon boat. What joy we felt! A chorus of birds sang all around, until we started up the lawn mower and scared them all away. We mowed all the lawns from sea to shining sea. It was the most glorious event in history for about ten minutes, and then i went back inside to eat some ravioli.
