Dear Lawn,
I know that we’ve had some issues in the past and I realize
that an open letter may not be the best way to reach out to you. You may be upset that I’m airing our
grievances to the world as opposed to how we’ve traditionally dealt with things
(you lying there silently, me cursing at you from behind the lawnmower.) Obviously we can’t continue on like this, our
relationship simply won’t last if things don’t change.
Maybe I’ve upset you by not paying enough attention to you
or by allowing my dog to consistently poop on you. But let’s be fair here, you haven’t exactly
been holding up your end either. You’re
patchy, weedy and brown. There, I said
it. It’s out in the open now.
I’ve tried all the things that I’m supposed to do: water,
fertilizer, seeding, regular mowing and yet you lay there, not putting any
effort in. In fact, whenever I try to
make things work, your response as of late is to burst out in dandelions, like
a pubescent14 year old sprouting new zits every day.
You aren’t lush, you aren’t green or verdant or bursting
with health or vitality. You accept the
gift of new grass seed and burp back weeds.
You take all the water and respond with brown patches. You don’t deserve me. I didn’t want it to
come to this, but yes, my eyes have strayed.
Instead of gazing at you with love and adoration, I find myself leering
at gravel or wood chips or concrete. You
simply aren’t the lawn that I fell in love with.
I know I shouldn’t compare us with other couples, but when I
see my neighbors happily mowing, leaving fresh lawn clippings in their wake
(instead of clouds of dust and bits of dandelion leaves) I feel ashamed of you
and don’t want to be seen with you anymore.
I’m tired of people thinking that I’m with you only because of your
great personality.
There is a movement going on that suggests that we do away
with lawns altogether and replace them with vegetable gardens. “Grow food, not lawns” is their motto. I think this is a laudable idea but unfortunately
for me, if I can’t grow a simple stem of grass, I’m not going to have much luck
growing something that people can actually eat. My potatoes would probably come out looking
and tasting like a lump of coal. My carrots would probably resemble straw and
as for cucumbers and zucchini, I’m not confident enough as a man to grow
unfavorable vegetable comparisons.
So lawn, you browning, dandelion spewing harlot, this is
your last chance. Either you start to
grow properly or I will be forced (and believe me, I hate to do this) to write
yet another firm letter, stamp my feet in futility and look longingly at the
neighbor’s patch of perfect green and spin murderous fantasies borne of
jealousy. It doesn’t help things when my
neighbor frowns in mock sympathy and says things like, “Got a few weeds there
huh?” Gentleman that I am, I never say
anything against your honor and it’s for your sake that I fling the stray cat
poop over onto his lawn. I do that for
you. In fact, I do it all for you. I can’t keep ignoring those flirty looks
from the gravel.
