The scent of fresh cut grass enchants the world in all its nosy glory. It just pissed him off, thinking of his childhood when he had to cut two acres of thick bahiagrass with a push-mower, raising it up and slowly lowering it down for each foot of grass he needed to cut – so the mower wouldn’t die. His parents divorced couple of years prior and his ten-year-old little self bore the torturing burden of cutting all that f-ing V-shaped grass. There was no satisfaction at the end of the day’s cutting. Not the clean edged look and not the sweet fresh smell. He hated his father for that. Everyone in the world (at least the ones he knew, and isn’t that basically everyone…in a self-limited epistemology) loved that scent except him, and his father had ripped that satisfaction from him like a scorned viper. He shook his head at that memory, like a dog shaking lake water from his hair, and looked over at her as she sat looking over the grassy knoll of the amphitheatre nodding her head to the music, and he smiled. Some things had not been stolen. She looked at him with nostalgic smiling eyes on her southern face and said, “Oh do you smell that freshly sheared grass? Isn’t it just wonderful?” Ignoring the word sheared he said, without hesitation and beaming with the truest smile he knew, “It’s amazing. I love the smell of fresh cut grass.”