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Sport 41: 2013
Hannah Mettner — Father in the garden
Hannah Mettner
Father in the garden
My father mows lawns
for a living. My childhood
sounds like the accent of
his lawnmower which
sounds like the fervent
rain on corrugated iron
which sounds like the
ferment of cicadas in the
throes.
There were never any
prickles in our lawn. So
us girls ran barefoot and
wild over fences and walls
and grew like weeds. Dad
would be squatting over
cracks in the concrete as
we were leaping over them.
He’d be plucking out weeds
like little bouquets of
wrong. He would present
them to God. My father
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wakes up early in the
morning to get to God first.
God’s still in bed and no
one else would dream
of waking him up. I have
heard him murmuring
about setting things in
order. He would mow
the garden of Eden into
the image of himself if
he could. He knows how
many blades of grass are
in each lawn the way God
knows how many hairs are
on each of our heads. Every
Sunday my father takes his
rest, twirling a glass of
wine between his fingers.
It always smells like freshly
cut grass. Like two-stroke
and sacrifice.