Cleansing Tears

by Carrie Johansen

"for brave Americans I will never meet, cousins, and classmates."

The blades whirl beneath me on the blue Dixon as I cut
a path through field grasses taller than I am, seated on
the old mower. The cracked seat--strips of fake leather
curling up, scratching my thighs below my shorts. Mom
decided against this eye-sore that fills the back third of our
7.3 acre plot, but I like the smell of the untouched grass
that can shock the brain with too big of a breath. We used to
hid in the grass, leave Mom calling "Kids, come inside. It's
time for supper" as we ate Fruit-By-The-Foot. But my brother's
been gone 16 days; he knew to wear basketball shorts, down
to the knee to save his legs from the grating of soft flesh on a torn
seat. That's why the Army called--even they knew he was smart.
I push my right hand forward to turn to the left, curve around
a tree, wonder how crickets will find new homes. This whir
sends specks of dust and shredded grass into my face. I
release the rubber-coated handles, slow the mower to an
idle. The blades continue to spin as I close my eyes, let tears
rinse out the invading irritants that attack my pupils. The whir
of my machine turns into the rumbling of a helicopter, and
I imagine my brother's silhouette against the sky, backlit and
framed by that Hollywood shot of an open Army helicopter.
The blue sky against his brown, green, black camouflage with
a pack I've never seen strapped to his back. He looks down, ready
to jump, free fall, then pull a cord I pray will save his life. The
whirring continues as he jumps, and I can't help but wonder
if my brother is going to cut down overgrown grass, shower locals
with bullets, rinse the land in the tears of those forced to find new homes.