The Grass in My Backyard

The grass in my backyard is green.

Or at least it should be,

Or could be,

But it's not.

Is yours?

Maybe I should have watered my grass like I was 

reminded,

asked,

and asked again,

so I could proudly show off my lawn and my ability to care for others who require daily watering to the world.

I can feel the prying eyes looking at my yard from above and I wonder how they got up there as well as feeling pain and sympathy and some misplaced guilt. 

"It's over here!" I shout.

Oh why did I take my splendid grass for granted like I had with countless houseplants and ex-girlfriends before and did I not love spending what seemed like hours or days or that week back in '78 rolling around on its lush, soft blades like I was a young boy again with freckles and glasses without a care in the world?

I've failed you this time grass,

but I will prove to you and humankind that I have learned my lesson and can fix you and make you whole again, thus making myself whole again too.

You will rise.

I promise.

My hands are covered with green paint.

Again.

What is wrong with me?

Don't answer that.

When I am alone with my green paint,
the world is my oyster,
the canvas is my stage,
the ideas are like rockets,
my brush is actually just my brush despite his protestations that he deserves a metaphor as well.

He doesn't.

At all.

In moments of serenity I lay on the floor next to my brushes and paint jars and papers that cover the floor and the four walls that surround me and I look up at the ceiling and dream of the future and all of the exciting things to come before I abruptly sit up and decide to paint my toes and my fingers and head to the movies.

The possibilities are endless when I am with brush and paint.
I can paint a frog,
or a family of frogs,
or a young boy with a slightly hunched back who is often dressed like a frog,
or a tree.

That's about it.

My stained hands are not unlike the stained hands of those that have come before me, my fallen brothers and sisters, who honestly are attention-seekers and should just get up already as nobody is watching.

Yes, my hands are green, thanks for noticing, and I've never felt more alive.

That's not saying much.

The money in my hand is green.

It could be the currency of our neighbours to the south granting me chances and opportunities and a fresh start.

But it's not.

Instead it is but play money,

worthless paper,

not real tender,
bendable and foldable,

and highly flammable.

Not that I've tried. 

Much.

All I can spend it on is fake tea and cake for Barbie and her friends as I play with my daughters. 

I feel strongly inclined to encourage Barbie to either save it for a rainy day or invest it as she is exceptionally bad at resisting blowing it all impulse shopping.

I wish that the money was real and that I could race to the stores and shops and get what I want, what I need, what I wish would make me fully happy but I know won't quite get me there as some things you just can't buy just like my mom used to tell me before giving me a hug that lacked conviction.

I used to think that if only I had many pockets

or bags

or locked safes hidden in my closet under my dirty shirts

or accounts 

full of money that problems will be solved.

But they aren't.

Not even close.

If only this green paper could

buy real cake,
then at least I'd have that.

The green shirt in my closet is my favourite.

I put it on and I'm instantly transformed into a person nicer to look at.

Moderately.

Much of the time the shirt 

hangs in my closet,

uncomfortably close to the hanger,

sitting in the dark,

plotting its revenge on the pants,

and wishing it could either speak or wear me for a change.

But it can't.

I'm all booked up at the moment.

How is next Tuesday?

I remember that day when I saw the shirt on display in the store almost literally calling "buy me" although my past is littered with all of the times I have misunderstood clothing resulting in much hilarity for all.

Ha ha ha.

Relatives beg and plead for me to see the truth, that it is only a shirt, but I know they are lying,

or jealous,

or far-sighted,

or sleep deprived,

or under-watered house plants.

Somedays I want to put on my green shirt and storm out of my house and announce myself to the world and other days I want to shrink into my closet clutching my shirt to my bare chest trying to be brave or just slightly less un-brave resisting the urge to use the shirt as a handkerchief.

I know it seems like only a shirt, but

it's so much more; it completes me.

Don't look so surprised.

Please?

The avocado in my bag is green.

I just can't wait to storm into my house, open it and scoop out its creamy insides and devour it like a wild animal consuming its prey.

That sounds a tad cruel.

But it's not.

I hope.

Others vehemently argue with me that they are only delicious fruit, but I know that they are also,

inspirations for poetry,

audiences for monologues,

kings of the salad,

how I met my wife,

and always there for me.

I love the feel of a just ripened avocado and I often find myself standing in the grocery store breathlessly caressing and gently squeezing each of them in turn hoping and praying to find a perfect one that I can take home and devour in private.

Nothing is worse then opening an avocado and seeing only brown as I just can't mask my disappointment.

My sister borrowed my last mask.

Yesterday.

I think.

Avocados are versatile and can instantly improve any

boring salad,

dry omelette,

lackluster sandwich,

monotone college instructor.

In the future, I hope that avocados can help us achieve world peace and that all the people of the world can sit together holding hands and making eye contact without giggling. 

Shhh....

I hold the avocado with a confidence that is meant to help me develop my hand muscles as well as inspire and confuse others.

You're welcome.