I will put my fingers together and pull the grass up from the roots. I will do it before my mother comes outside. If I don't she'll ask "what have you been doing out here all this time?" But if I do, I'll have something to show for myself. I'll give her the stalks of grass as if they are flowers. She may thank me, but she more likely will wonder why I bothered to dig up the good grass.

I will move away from home one day soon. I will plant a garden where I live. I will make grass angels with my legs and arms. I will plant marigolds, petunias, wildflowers, honeysuckles, and tomatoes, and not be able to tell them apart from each other. My mother will never visit. She won't want to get on a plane, she won't want to extend herself, she won't want to meet my lovers. But she will always, of course, be invited.