Checked the sprinklers.
Tapped the irrigation box twice because it always acted stupid on Mondays.
Fed the feral cat that wasn’t actually feral, it just refused to come inside.
Cleared the fallen branches from the heavy wind last night.
Inspected the cart tires.
Re-coiled the hoses so her Daddy wouldn’t gripe about “trip hazards.”
She did it all half-awake, coffee-less, in her bonnet under her hood, with not a single piece of her looking like she ran a whole driving range.
“Phew…” Meadow groaned, hands on her hips as she surveyed the greens. She smiled at the dream of her father being real and tangible. “This will always be my favorite place.”
A bird chirped in agreement or disrespect, it was hard to tell which.
Meadow hated those damn birds.
They were always lurking, always singing those joyful little songs that made her roll her eyes.
Joyful for what?
The world had vicious teeth and bit hard as hell.
Her dreams felt more like chores now, and some days she swore she was running on fumes and memory alone. But this land…this acreage of patchy grass and stubborn soil…it was stitched into her bones.
Growing up, her father, Raymond had her out there in too big and mismatched clothes, before she could spell grass.
She followed him everywhere.
From hole to hole, mower to mower, clubhouse to cart shed.
He taught her how to read the wind before she learned long division, how to grip a club before she knew cursive, how to fix an engine with a hairpin and how to pray when money got tight and they had to make things stretch.
This land raised her.
The grass caught her falls.
The sun kissed every stage of her childhood…every birthday, every scraped knee, and every tantrum about chores.
And back then, she really believed this place was magic.
A little pocket of the world where Raymond’s dreams sprouted right alongside hers.
But the magic faded when life got heavy.
When her mama’s memory started slipping.
When bills piled.
When lessons slowed.
When being the caretaker, the worker, the daughter, and the dream-holder fell on her shoulders all at once.
Now the greens didn’t just remind her of her father’s joy. They reminded her of everything she was fighting to keep alive. Everything she refused to let crumble.
Dragging her foot through the dewy grass, her eyes drifted across the familiar hills and dips of the land. “This place raised me,” she whispered to herself. “And it refuses to let me go,” she hissed.
