Blades of Grass

by Keith U.

I picked away blades of grass

dried on the side of my shoe

where the sole meets the rest.


The welt where floormats

and doormats

and even wiping with paper towels-

pulled from the roll he'd left in the floor of his truck

perched on the transmission hump

-wouldn't reach.


(How that roll stayed put

when I drove

I'll never know.)


I'd wiped away as many

of the fresh green blades

as I could

from polished leather

the same rainy August morning

they'd gathered there.


(“What are the odds of August rain in Texas?”

I'd quipped days before

as arrangements were made.)


Yet rain that morning fell, unimpressed by the odds.


I picked away blades of grass

without making much progress

and paused to listen to echos


twenty eight years a memory

my teenage voice, complaining to my teacher

“I don't want to do that story, it is boring.”


Her retort rang clear

and sharp

as the day she'd snapped back

You'reboring.  A writer can make anything interesting.

“Even a blade of grass.”


I picked away blades of grass

that had gathered

as I carried him

from the car

in the rain.


I and five others

snaked between flat markers

across yards and yards of grass

fresh cut for us, for this.


A few words were said

then I walked away

back to his truck

leaving him behind

where the soul meets the rest.