cutting the grass

At long last, I did something today that changed the course of my vacation. I didn’t hit the beach nor go spelunking which I sorely miss; what I managed to do was something many wouldn’t dare do these days, especially in my age. As with other breaks that I had in the past years I decided giving a hand to my mum and came out from our house—working gloves on and armed with a pair of garden shears. Because mowing seriously wouldn’t work in our stony hilltop frontyard, I manually cut the weeds. Unlike in the previous long days when I jadedly face the computer like a customer service representative, I enjoyed my shady spot, the brush of the long grass, and the beads of sweat that reminded me only of an effort put into good use. As the sun leisurely hid behind the hills while the gray skies signaled me and my mother a rainy night, I went back home. I was happy.

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