I am lying on one side of the hill I call my garden. Lying down, it looks like a jungle. I am surrounded by the grass that I came out here to cut. For some reason, I just can't bring myself to cutting it. Something so vivacious, which grows so vigorously. Who am I to level it? And yet again, I know I will have to do it. Eventually. Otherwise, the neighborhood will probably have us evicted.
The only thing that is visible from here, except the waist-high grass, is our neighbors' house. It's a big, bright structure, surrounded by a real garden. But for the last couple of weeks, it's been looking sad. Lifeless. The inhabitants are away on vacation, and the house stands empty. In some strange way, it is akin to the body of someone who has died. It is so visibly just a shell. A box. A sunshine-colored vessel, whose passengers have all disembarked. And that is profoundly sad.
But they'll be back. I will mutilate my grass. And all will be well.