The old man vowed to cut the small patch of lawn in front of his cottage when the next sunny day rose. That day came, and he wanted to procrastinate. Instead, he lifted the heavy toolbox from the closet shelf and removed a tangled and twisted orange electric cord, a screwdriver, and a blue weed whacking cord spool. Bending painfully, he plugged in the cord and, carrying his equipment, went outside where the sunshine fell soft upon the land.
With each step, a tiny lurch for balance, the old man positioned his tools on the arm of the green plastic Adirondack chair, plugged the electric cord into the weed whacker, pressed the trigger, and began trimming the brick path. Tough weeds and rogue grasses clung to the crevasses, and the whacker had to be tilted at a specific angle to unearth them.
Bracing against the loud, angry machine buzzing, the old man flinched when specks of dirt and rock hit his face. It would have been sensible to retrieve his glasses, but he preferred to take his chances than track debris on the carpet. He hadn’t changed his clothes, either, and quickly his black jeans were furry green, and his long sleeve, white button-down shirt showed signs of smudging. In his youth, weed whacking brought pleasure, but now, though still strong, movement triggered anxiety due to stiffness and other mobility issues.
