“What’s the rush?” he yells at a tanned man cutting grass. “Why not a whole day, just one lousy day?”
The man on the tractor shakes his head and continues mowing. My father unfolds a letter. I ask him what it is.
“It’s from the groundskeeper,” he says. He reads aloud, “We’ll replace the sod after it rains.” He refolds the letter and tucks it away. “I’m sure it will be better in the spring.”
Somewhere under the brittle grass he’s sure there’s a listening ear.