The sound of the lawnmower was carried throughout the neighborhood. It drowned out the other noises on the block. To me, it was quietness. It was the noise in which I could do my thinking, my dreaming and my seeing. I could only hear one noise when I turned on that mower and the world looked so different when there was no sound to it. It was like watching a movie with no sound, you can make the people say what you want them to say. I was the writer of their script.
The mower died down and the world’s noises flooded back to my ears as I finished up the yard. I looked around at my handiwork. The hedges were neatly trimmed and the grass was even. I took in a deep breath and sighed. It smelled of a job well done.
I packed my gear back up into my battered truck. I loved my truck. It was a deep blue with dents in the fenders and sides. Each one told of a different story of how it came into existence while some hid their story from the world and were left unknown. The inside was my home. I would sit in it for hours dreaming of things the way I wish they were. I would sit in the trunk bed and watch movies on my laptop, my own little cinema. Overall, it was where I was me.
