2022-07-25 - The Lawn

It's afternoon, the morning dew long since evaporated (and, let's not forget, incorporated). Della's out there with the push mower, the sun barely aslant over her bare arms and legs, her shadow staying close.

She'd sat out here in the ankle-high grass for breakfast, the kittens scampering about in their harnesses -- and if her encouragement to stay close, stay in our territory came mentally as well as vocally, that always blends in. There's nothing to notice.

(Even now, Athena's in the window, watching.)

No more faerie circle from yard to yard to yard. Summer blended into summer, and now dandelions sprout here as much as anywhere. There are no Disney does and their fawns, though other wildlife's gotten used to visiting this place, and she hopes that they still will. Every now and again there's a bird with plumage that's remarkable.

But she can mow freely now. She doesn't need to be careful for little mushrooms that, run over, pop silvery-orange spores into the air. She doesn't need to watch for vines that twist like cats about her ankles (well, unless Una's around and feeling playful). It isn't as vivid, but it's probably safer.

No, it is safer.

There, that's where they'd all danced and sung and flown; there's where the tables of magical provender once stood; there is where the earth shook. A mortal did that to faerie, let's not forget.

There's where they had the getting-to-know-neighbors party, and later the barbecue, with so many others in between.

She suspects she'll miss it, come winter, or even the autumn she hasn't yet seen, when the bright leaves dry and fall and muddy into a skim of untrustworthy stew (which is why she'll need to rake them up, the way she used to do at home). But for now, the scent of cut grass rises sharp and green, and when she empties the bag into the compost barrel...

Is that a bit of glitter?

An earring -- no, a scale.

She plucks it out.