Green Grass Memorial

Hello, dear readers. For once this is not a work of fiction, but a story coming from the author herself. I hope that something within this story touches you as the reader and you might be able to get a feeling of something from this slice of life you’re about to read. 

The very first time I smelled fresh-cut grass I was around six or seven. Possibly older, possibly younger. It’s a hard memory to pinpoint. This was really the first time where I matched scent to a memory. Now, most people probably like the smell of fresh-cut grass, the wet dew on the blades getting your shoes and pants wet, but for me...I detest it. 

Here’s the reason why: the first time I remember smelling fresh-cut grass was the first time I truly remember visiting my grandfather’s grave. I remember sitting with my mother as she discreetly tried to wipe away her tears, while she holds a bouquet of flowers in her lap. My grandfather died when I was very young, little more than a toddler really, and fresh-cut grass always reminds me of going to the cemetery to sit at his grave. To sit on that old marble bench in front of that greying, faded, marble headstone and leave flowers in their holder. 

My grandfather was wonderful — so I’ve been told — and I still have the last gift that he gave me before he died. It was a ukulele with a red-colored body and black strings. I still play ukulele and guitar today in his honor. Fresh cut grass makes me think of him when I smell it, which would normally be a good reaction, however, I have no memories of him. I have none of my own brainpower and memory except for the ones that pictures have implemented and clicked into place for me. My grandfather’s name was Martin, which when looked up means “Warlike” and that’s the farthest thing that my grandfather could have been if you tried. He was a gardener, a giver, a good father, and husband, and although he had his mistakes there was no doubt that he loved his family and daughters. He endured hardships growing up as the oldest child of ten siblings and through growing up in the Great Depression Era but he was one to laugh, to laugh loudly, and to have a smile in place. His name is passed on to two of his great-grandchildren, both used as middle names. 

Let me tell you a little bit about what I think when I inhale that distinct smell of cut grass. I think about my grandfather’s grave, of cemeteries, and of loss. To others, this smell might bring you something very very different and I’m grateful for that, that this certain smell doesn’t make you sad or melancholy. Fresh cut grass makes my nose crinkle and I quickly try to get it out of my olfactory senses as soon as possible, but… one thing that I am grateful for is the fact that this smell, this scent, makes me think of a good man. I didn’t get the chance to know him, but I know of him. For now, that will have to be enough until one day I meet him face to face. Until that day, I’ll look at his picture on that headstone, next to an engraved guitar, and I’ll give a tiny smile of remembrance. 

My grandfather, as I said before, was a gardener. He would tenderly prune his roses at the front of his house and meticulously take care of his yard. My grandmother still lives in that house and there are pictures and small reminders of him if you look hard enough. My mother got that green thumb gene from him — a plant never her more happy — however, she can’t make roses grow for the life of her. I’ve also been told that she also got his laugh, which is my laugh too. Loud, boisterous, and real. My grandfather loved music and he was self-taught in guitar, vocals, accordion, and mariachi music. I long to have been able to hear him play, so now, I play guitar to remember him. I have one of his old electric guitars and there’s nothing more precious to me that to play on that same instrument, feeling the phantom hands teaching me along the way. He’s with me when I play and I like to think he would be proud of the way I grew up. 

As a young lady, I thankfully haven’t felt that pain or grief of losing someone dear to me but when I smell fresh cut grass my heart always gives a tight squeeze in my diaphragm. It hurts for a split second before I can rush that scent out of my mind. This grey cloud of grief comes over me and in flashes, I see who I miss. I see my grandmother still mourning his loss nearly two decades later, I see my mother wishing she had her father again as little girls never stop loving their daddy, and I see myself wishing I had had more time with him.

My grandfather deserves a better legacy than just the remembrance of his birth and death dates. My family and I do the best we can to memorialize him and to make sure he’s known to the younger generations. He was caring, smart, loving, stern at times, hard-working, and responsible. He played music for the joy of hearing and seeing others dance to it, he was a good father to all of his children because his father wasn’t, and he loved his grandchildren even when he started getting sick.

So...do you see? This is all that the smell of fresh-cut grass brings back. I try to remember the good things about my grandfather, the only one I really would have had, when I inhale that scent of fresh-cut grass. I try not to remember the bad and grief-filled moments, but the joyful ones that I reminisce with my mother. Newly cut grass might mean something as simple as a freshly mowed lawn to some however what it means to me is the lovely memories of one man that holds a very special place in my heart. So — with much love in my heart — when I smell fresh cut grass I try to remember my grandfather. To Martin Garza, I remember you.