After the passing of the mower, a tiny clump of grass emerged with ends frayed but still standing proud.
He stopped and knelt. A memory, and an identification. It looked like a small tussock.
… afternoons of lying on his back sheltered between them and staring at the sky. Sounds of wind soughing through and the occasional skylark.
… their giant cousins, the snowgrasses, that when unburnt were taller than people. Playing hide and seek between them. Getting the four-wheeler at speed bellied on them.
… their dry smell. Cool air. Windburn. Long days in the sun.
He missed them. But here they were, more scattered through the lawn as he looked.
Maybe they’d come to bring him home.