“I wanna hold you close, but never hold you back; Just like the banks to the river”

I look out to the front yard and sigh. It’s June. Little has changed. My lawn looks as it did last autumn, winter, and early spring. Two stumps of a great evergreen and a maple remain. I remember their legacy. They were here when we purchased the house. Many of the maple’s branches reached toward the sky, while the low-hanging ones protected me as one holds an umbrella for its love in the afternoon rain.

Immediately, I’m saddened by their demise. We agreed to their murder, in the name of solar panels. Their deaths weren’t straightforward as we were promised, but rather a gruesome fall. Over the course of ten weeks, they were killed and their bodies chopped to unrecognizable chunks by an amateur redneck company and strewn throughout the yard. Some pieces manageable; other parts, not. The project also mutilated multiple areas of the front yard, ignited a fire that caused the local police and fire departments, and electric company to show. Plus, they broke the gate that separates the front yard from back.

As I stare out, I hear myself say aloud to no one, “I should take care of this,” and giggle to myself when I remember last Christmas when I wanted to wrap lights around the remnants, but didn’t.

Weeks later, I hire a friend’s cousin, via his side hustle, to remove the two stumps and their corresponding roots. He quotes me a price, walks through the yard, taps various roots with the toe of his boot, and assures me the job will be finished by that afternoon.

I come home from work and see the job that had been done. I sigh with disappointment. I text, send pictures, and call him. He promises to return for an additional one-hundred fifty dollars. When I question him about the agreed-upon job, he denies any errors.

“You didn’t say those roots.”

“I said roots. All roots.”

“That’ll mess up your front lawn.”

“I’m aware,” I reply. “I want the roots gone.”

When he returns, he finally does as I ask. He also leaves the grindings, which I actually expect. Initially, my ex and I begin to clean up the wood chips, one shovel at a time, into the town organic waste bin. We are soon advised against it as it would take “forever.”

“Hire someone,” a passerby tells my ex.

Then, June 24 happens. Notoriety. Everything is on hold.

I just try to remember to breathe.

Over the next two months, my lawn, like the energy within my home and soul are stagnant. We’re in survivor mode.

I next awake in early September and see the state of my front yard. My mom says it look like a bomb detonated in three separate spots. She’s not wrong. I call two businesses for quotes and ultimately hire someone to remove the wood chips and fill in the holes. Within days, my landscaper reseeds it and grass is finally growing.

I look out at the yard. Baby grass reaches for the sky and I’m instantly in the moment, remembering the day I, too, open my eyes to a new beginning. I also see it in my canine low-rider’s energy.

We remember the start of summer. Longer days. Warm evenings. Everlasting promise of innocence. And then, its abduction. We are frozen in time. Like a shock to the system, we are in fight-or-flight mode. We dodge some hits, but miss others.

We sit immobile. Breathing and acting when called upon. Standing still, pretending to be invisible until it’s no longer an option. Life is breathed back into ourselves. We embrace a new awakening. Mackenzie Jo, my canine low-rider, finds her puppy energy, which was once reserved for early mornings while he slept. She runs around. Zoomies. She plays with her toys well into the night. She bounces like a bunny rabbit and investigates as if she’s been commissioned.

I, see positivity, opportunity, compassion, and fun.

I embrace a new me, unafraid at what could make me pause. I grow. I achieve. I do hard things and create opportunities. I am like my front lawn’s baby grass. Unafraid. Excited.