I put the baby down in her crib. It’s mid-morning. All things going well, I’d have an hour of quiet time, time to do something for myself, before she woke and the kids returned for lunch.
But things don’t always play out according
to what we plan.
I press the switch on the kettle to boil the water. Standing still, I watch the colorful patterns made by the sunshine dancing on the beige cupboards. It’s so quiet I can hear the birds chirping in the trees outside the kitchen window.
Sounds of movement and people catch my attention. Suddenly, there is a roar of a motor and the sound of a lawnmower close by. In fact it is right outside the window, in the garden beyond the wall
before me. It’s the season. The season of unending lawnmowers working away in the neighborhood. My head is bursting
already, even after the first few seconds. It’s been like this for days. Just when one stops, another starts. I take my tea to the living
room, the farthest place from the garden, where I can sit somewhat peacefully. The air wafting through the window brings with it the smell of freshly cut grass. I run to yank it closed. In the past, it never
would have bothered me. But over the last few years, things have changed. All of a sudden my body dislikes pollen. Spring has
always been my favorite time of the year. I wait for it all through the long, dark, grey, shivery winter months. It’s the light at the
end of the tunnel. And it never disappoints.
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