Reflection: Tall Grass

A love letter to my oldest son's wonder

Here at Heartfelt Fiction, I mostly share, well, fiction. Even if a story is written in the first person, it’s a fictional point of view. But every now and then, I want to tell the story of my own life. Thus, the Reflection series. These are little love letters to the people in my life or the moments that matter most. To make sure you never miss one, be sure to subscribe.

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We went to a party out in the rolling hills of the country. Our friends’ sprawling home sat on acres of gorgeously manicured lawns and cultivated garden plots. Though the house was open, most people converged under the gazebo that held the event’s drinks in quaint metal coolers and its food on long wooden tables.

The venue was set off from the road on a long knoll, all of which was covered by tall grass. It was the only part of the property that was unruly. Blades of grass had gone from lush green to wispy beige. Weeds stretched up to the sun in magnificent stalks that made me momentarily forget that they should be unwanted. Here and there pockets of wildflowers exploded in riotous color.

You stood at the edge of it, staring out like a captain charting new water. I watched you from the shade. I only had one ear to the conversation going on in the cluster of friends around me. As usual, I was much more interested in your little world.

Maybe you felt my gaze or you were struck by a sudden uncertainty. Whatever the reason, you turned and asked, “Can I play in this?”

“Of course. Just stop before the street.” I replied. I don’t know why I did that; telling you something you already knew. Blame it on poor time perception. You may be seven years old, but I swear it was only last week that you learned to walk.

You waded in up to your hips. Ever-growing fingers floated in the drying blades like they were water. I snapped a photo of you, thinking how perfect you looked in this wash of nature. You don’t notice. Instead you thoughtfully took in the vegetation around you. After what I imagine was careful consideration you looked up at me again.

“Want to come with me, Mama?”

I didn’t think twice. I put down my drink, took off my shoes, hiked my party dress up to my knees and followed you.

We left the reveling adults in their finery and wove through the jungle of overgrowth, some blades even taller than me.

You called to me when you saw a lady bug and we began to count them, competing over who could find the most. You won with a grand total of eleven. I lost, but was the only one to find a black beetle.

I pointed out the largest dandelion pouf I’d ever seen. You raced over to blow its seeds and make a wish. The fluff dissipated in a flock of delicate parasols, floating on the breeze. You laughed. I smiled. Then we were off again.

We played hide-and-seek, crouching down beneath towering blades. You were much better at it than me; your golden hair blended in perfectly while my dark curls and bright dress stood out. It didn’t matter. I was always glad to be found.

We were happily adrift in the field. Unbothered by the party in full swing above us or the cars that passed below. It was our own little world.

The magic that encased us was eventually pierced by the sweet, high voice of your little brother looking for us. We picked our way back across the grasses and weeds, emerging on perfectly tended lawn as though reentering reality.

You ran off to play baseball. I picked up my now-warm drink and rejoined a suitably adult conversation. We were both back to our usual selves, but for a glorious hour we were just playmates in adventure.

This moment is exactly why I became a mother. Grown-ups sometimes lose the ability to find joy in the mundane or explore the ordinary. Children’s inherent curiosity invites us to reignite our own wonder in the everydayness of life. We stagnant adults need only to say yes. Not all of us do, of course. But I promise that I will always break free from the bindings of maturity in order to say yes to an adventure with you.

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