A Park with Rectangular Stones on Fresh Cut Grass

There is nothing like the smell of fresh cut grass on a late spring evening just before sunset.

Smells like this can generate a plethora of thoughts and memories in my youth. The mowing of my grandparent’s lawn for a dollar and a quart of lemonade mixed with 7Up. Laying down in my backyard taking a nap, waking up with the smell still fresh in my nostrils. Playing hide and go seek in the playground near my home till Momma would yell out my name and I would come running, all out of breath with still the grass smell sitting in my nostrils.

Our wedding. An outdoor wedding at the botanical gardens in the open air on fresh cut lawn. My bride’s gown, moving up the grassy path toward me and when she is at my side the fragrance that followed. I believe I shed a small and emotional tear.

And now, for me...it’s my weekly visit to Memorial Park. Twenty five miles away from where I reside, I don’t mind the cost of an Uber ride there and back to be able to come, an hour before sunset, and stroll. It's a meandering walk with slight dips like small rolling hills with nothing but grass and rows of granite just below the grass line. Among the blades of fresh cut grass are these stones rectangular in shape etched with names and numbers, reminders of lives lived and lives lost. As I walk through the grass with the shiny polished stones sometimes I stop trying to remember if I had seen that name before. Probably but have forgotten because of the anticipation of the stone that matters.

Every stone has a short story. Some with only a name and some numbers. Some with a phrase a literary or biblical reference. But all a reminder of something that once was and now is no more.

My walk is the same each week. I stroll slowly, yet intentionally because with each step there is the feeling of many emotions. Sadness, with the slight expectation of joy. Each step as if rehearsed, passing the same stones, with the same engravings, the same path till I reach the rectangular stone there laying in the grass reminding me of someone special, someone who made my world complete and distinct. The love of my life, the mother of our children...my sweet Eloise.

This granite stone, laid flat on the ground visible only when one is standing over it is etched with special care, Eloise Elizabeth Billings, May 11, 1960 - September 11, 2001. I always crouch down wiping away real and/or imaginary blades of grass from its face. I take the daisy from its cellophane wrapping and place it on the stone. I touch my fingers to my lips and touch my freshly kissed fingers to her stone. I stay crouched sometimes kneeling for how long, I am not sure. One time I found myself waking up in the dark

curled on the ground not remembering what happened and how I fell asleep so soundly for so long, just that I was sleeping once more next to my sweetheart. I didn't even mind the wait for another Uber to come and pick me up.

This time I stand and look around this place, this park and feel like I never want to leave. To leave as I do every time I visit makes me feel like I am leaving a part of me behind because in reality…I do. Today the park is empty except for me, my Eloise, and the hundreds of deceased neighbors of my love.

Today alone in the park, it’s these quiet times when memories flood my mind. I recall the very last moments, the final minutes with Eloise as the scent of Memorial Park comes over me like an ocean wave immersing my nostrils with a familiar fragrance. Her waking moments with a lilt of freshness and a softly spoken "Good morning" I recall. It’s the sound of her, before leaving for work that I remember, coffee pot brewing and the sound of the toaster popping up its fresh browned bread. The clinking of the silverware and dishes being set on a table as I crawl out of bed. The walking into the kitchen, windows wide open bringing in that same smell of fresh cut grass.

She hugs me just like she has for oh so many years of being together. I take a long drawn breath of the coffee and say how great an aroma and her response is "yes...I love the smell of fresh cut grass." I am not sure if it’s because the scent wafting through our window or a hint to me that our lawn needs mowing.

She gets up to brush her teeth, one last brush of her hair and a look into a mirror and says, "We need milk, and the lawn could use a shave." She giggles as she walks out to the car to get to the train to take her to work. One last glimpse out the window, a wave, a kiss blown my way and then the smell again of fresh cut grass. And then she was gone.

Yes she died on 9-11. The South tower. I was in the shower when later I saw her missed phone call, later recalling that it was about ten minutes after the plane crashed five floors below her. The voice mail was fuzzy. Sounds of crying and yelling and her voice sounding muffled amidst the cacophony of noises with only three words discernible near the end of the message, "I love you."

When I smell the Bermuda lawn at Memorial park standing over the earthly remains of Eloise I can still remember the smells of the lawn as I watched her drive away. The fragrance here and then reminds me of a million small occurrences, interactions, and moments of love it never ceases to overwhelm me with emotions of sadness and of love.

Fresh cut grass...a fine granite rectangular stone which while I traverse and reflect, bring joy and contentment for a relationship that now dormant living only in my mind.