Grass

The whir of a lawn mower wakes me at 10am on a Saturday morning, the smell of fresh cut grass wafts in with the light breeze through my open window. I don't open my eyes or even admit I'm awake, I just lie here, concentrating on my senses: the crisp cotton sheet caresses my arms, the summer smell of the grass brings images of vast green lawns, lush and inviting, my bare feet walk over the carpet softness, the lawn mower whir stops and the whisper of the breeze makes the wind chime play its familiar tune. The smell of freshly brewed coffee now wanders up stairs to stir me from this dream, the insistant tinkling of my mother's spoon stirring her coffee is the alarm I have been waiting for to pad my way into wakeness and Saturday's summer chores.