There in the backyard they stood. Always swaying and wilting, squished, squashed, mowed, fresh and oh so many shades of green. She’d lain in that grass with her first love. They’d spread the woven blanket like peanut butter, smoothed out on bread. Her favorite food. The young boy and girl went from sitting, to lying, to cuddling under the sun, like illuminated magnets in a zoo. Her parents, the audience at the zoo gates, watched from the windows, in their separate rooms, staring in wonder at the happiness they’d lost. Had they ever felt that way? They couldn’t remember. Love is a blade of grass. It’s a lawnmower mowing. It’s that feeling of being completely cut down only to grow again, to love another. They’d become waves washing over each other on the shores of “family”.
“Good Morning dear” she’d say
“Goodmorning” he’d reply
“Have a good day”
“You too”
“Goodnight” she’d say
“Night”  he’d reply. Their days had frozen up with the words of these polite expectations. They always knew what would happen next. Now, staring like a zoo audience, they felt themselves caged. It was that feeling of watching a gorilla, the king of the jungle, big and strong and beautiful. It was that feeling of seeing it’s big brown eyes, like dark chocolate, bittersweet. It was that feeling of seeing him, and him seeing you, and realizing you’re both caught in captivation. Stuck and caged in the facade of this “civilization”. A civilization where wives say good morning. Where husbands say goodnight.
Their daughter lay in the grass on smoothed peanut butter, melted on warm bread in the arms of something real. Someone she really loved. The grass was always swaying, and wilting, squished, squashed, mowed, fresh and oh so many shades of green. She’d lain in that grass with her first love. The mother had. The father had. Years and years ago.