Yesterday was all about money. Or not having it. Friends in crisis – clearly as a last resort because it’s no secret – calling to ask me if I have any money. Of course I don’t. And they understood but I still felt horrible for not being able to help them. Also, I’ve been saving up for a new camera. It seems like forever. And, yesterday, I couldn’t shake off my funk of poverty. I’ve decided of late to be rich. Disgustingly, dreadfully, dastardly rich. Poverty requires too much paperwork. No doubt there’s paperwork for the rich too, but they can afford to pay somebody else to do it.

A few minutes ago I was walking Murphy. It’s sunny and warm and breezy. Just down the street they must have just finished cutting the lawn. I was facing the afternoon sun and I closed my eyes and felt the light on my face and smelled the freshly cut grass. I love that smell. I was 16 again and cutting my grandparent’s lawn, thirsty, hot, sweaty, covered in blades of grass and awaiting my grandmother’s ice-tinkling lemonade and my customary five bucks. And humming Almost Paradise. I almost edited that in preference for something more manly. But let’s not revise history. To clarify, I hummed it In my memory, not just now, not standing eyes closed on the street. And everything was alright.

And when I opened my eyes, there was nothing wrong with what I could see either. A summer afternoon. And my dog smiling, but looking at me queerly, no doubt because I had stopped for no good reason – at least no good reason that she could reckon – to close my eyes, to steal a happy memory buried in my head wrapped in the smell of fresh-cut grass. And right now, at least, there’s nothing wrong with anything.

SS