“I can’t believe I’m doing this right now.”
I hesitated for a moment, but eventually went on with it.
I squatted down on the front lawn, careful not to kneel since there was still remnants of morning dew on the grass. This was so much easier when I was six.
When I was a kid, I had a talent for finding four leaved clovers on my front lawn. The place was a gold mine for them–some trips I’d find five or six within minutes. Our lawn had some kind of supernatural powers, mutating half the clovers to have four, five, even six leaves.
If the lawn could grow leaves with its superpowers, maybe it could do other things too. So I used it as my compass, my decision maker.
“If I find a clover in the next thirty seconds, I should apologize to Mom for our fight,” I’d say.”
As I grew older, the sentiments changed. “If I don’t find anything in 45 seconds, I shouldn’t go through with dying my hair,” or something more like that.
So here I am now. At 23 years old, my sights set on leaves and stems. Years of books and computer screens have taken their toll on my eyes, but they haven’t forgotten their usual clover-hunting path.
“If I find something in the next minute, it means he does love me.” It sounded even more stupid when I said it out loud. But I was getting desperate. He’s been like a newspaper left out in the rain–you know there’s something in there, but you just can’t read it.
My eyes jumped from leaf to leaf, grass patch to grass patch, as the clock ticks down. My heart flutters with hope as I think I see one, but sinks into my stomach when it’s a false alarm. This lawn isn’t what it used to be, it’s seem to have lost its magic–and I’m starting to think that so have I.
“3, 2, 1…” and time runs out. I stand up, watch a fly take flight, and wish I could do the same. I was stupid to think there was any magic left in this world, let alone this stupid lawn.
But that’s life. Sometimes there are no clovers, and sometimes boys don’t love you back. It’s just hard to accept when you love to pick the clovers, and love the boy dearly.
So I walk up the walkway back towards the house. On one hand I’m humiliated that I resorted to clover picking to determine my future, and on the other I’m seriously bummed it didn’t go my way.
So through the door I go, back to reality, leaving my hopes behind. Leaving my hopes on that lawn where, if you trace the fly’s flight back, a four leaf clover stands tall, dew drops glimmering in the midmorning sun.