“Cuttin' It”
I’m twelve, a tall twelve. Maybe that’s why adults trust me to cut their grass, even though I miss some patches and sometimes don’t get along the fence close enough.
The screen door taps shut behind me as I leave the house, and I squint into the morning sun. I pull a crumpled red rag from my back pocket, bend, and wipe dried oil and grass from the lawnmower’s engine. I slide the gas can handle over the end of my bike’s handlebars and pedal away from the back porch, pulling the lawnmower behind me.
At Mrs. Gould’s, I set the gas can on her porch. I tug the glassy gray pull cord and listen as the engine spurts and dies. I pull again and the motor shudders to life. I press down on the warm metal bar and jump the mower off the sidewalk and into the grass.
Walking along behind the mower, I stop to pick out a rock and drop it at the street before turning the mower for another path. Further on, the mower spits a wooden clothespin at the house. Oops.
Near the end, I hurry to get finished, and the mower sputters and coughs, chewing the grass, leaving it hacked and bruised. I slow down, stop, and retrace my steps. I have a duty to Mrs. Gould. Her lawn should look nice.
“How about some lemonade,” Mrs. Gould asks when I’m finished and she’s paid me.
“No thanks, Ma’am. Mom’s countin’ on me to cut enough grass to buy some tar patch for the roof.”
The sun’s moved, so the gas can is getting too warm on the porch. I’ll try to find a shady spot at the next house where the fumes from the can won’t bother anybody. I hook the gas can handle over my handlebars and pull the mower behind as I head for the next tall grass.
The End