Out in the Yard

The metal rake scrapes away wilted leaves, revealing damp dark dirt, ivy, tiny wildflowers, tufts of grass, and green weeds. It feels like a deep human need, this cleaning. Scott says humans evolved over time to recognize the smell of rain from miles away. I wonder if this is why the unveiling of sodden soil feels like survival to me now. Though, the joy I take from gathering ground in hand and tool is bigger than it ought to be, for I am not growing food or finding water.  I am simply grooming, tidying one area, and making monstrous lumps of leaf, wood, and seed in another. They call it "yard work." It is work for me. Work that is only necessary for my personal sanity. Out in the yard, my skin sweats, and my muscles moan, while sticks and stones and dirt rattle and poke inside my boots. It is meditation. While I rake the ragged earth, I am not looking at the news. I am not thinking about Italy or New York City. I am not thinking about Wuhan or Boston. I am not thinking about doctors or ventilators. I am not thinking about the elderly. I am not thinking about the mailman, the grocer, or the hospital. I am, for a little while, not thinking about much of anything except: is the baby still asleep on me? And: up, drop the metal teeth, drag, up, drop the metal teeth, drag, and carry, carry, carry, dump.