The mower sputtered to life with its usual grumble, but this time, the noise felt different. It wasn’t the angry buzz of July, when you’re fighting crabgrass and sweat; it was a slower, more deliberate hum. I was already nostalgic for the smell of fresh-cut blades, the way they stick to your ankles.
I made sure to get the last couple of straggling leaves, too. It felt like tidying up the house before a guest leaves—you want them to remember the good version of you, not the messy one.
Let’s be honest: the grass wasn’t even growing much anymore. I was basically just giving it a trim for the end credits of the season. (Yes, I treat my lawn like a summer blockbuster.)
