Home

            After dragging a somewhat dead lifeless body to class today after a long weekend at my parents, I find myself thinking about the value of home. I remember how hard I tried to get away from it, venturing into the wondrous land of boarding school at the age of 14 only to return after a year. The cliche says that “Home is where the heart is,” but I would venture so far as to say that home keeps a part of your soul as well. Maybe it’s not the actual physical structure but rather the memories and ideas engrained in those structures.

            As I trudged to campus, I was quickly mesmerized by the sound of lawn mowers and the idyllic smell of fresh cut grass. I thought immediately of my father seemingly gliding back and forth on his tractor across our three acres of land. I thought of the times where he had carefully carved a racetrack for my brother and I to ride our go-carts. I thought of my mother jumping at snakes while picking blackberries for wine in that same field. 

I smile, which is a rather inappropriate thing to do when you are trudging your way somewhere. Trudging is a smile-less, soul-less activity. I thought of the allergy attacks that I had suffered and the Benadryl I had consumed as a result of the grassy smell. If the smell of grass were a note, it would ring simple and clear, ready to harmonize with the other sounds of summer. It would sound like the careful hum of my dad’s mower and the energy of my mother’s voice calling my name. 

My home and my soul smell like grass.

-les