I Am a Body Lying in the Grass by Allison Hughes

I Am a Body Lying in the Grass | Allison Hughes

On my walk to work in Jamaica Plain, I think of something I want to tell you. Something I see or feel or remember, typically, as I pass the first pond on my route, the one with a walking path that was fenced off for months due to renovations. Today, the fence is gone and the pond is a swamp, more brown than green, like the time you visited me in November. I told you we weren’t stopping here to eat our takeout Thai food because the water was kind of icky—lots of geese traffic. I don’t know when the renovations to the path occurred, if ever, but I want to tell you that they did. 

On my way to work a couple of weeks ago, as I walked by that first pond, I saw a woman sitting in the grass on the opposite side of the road. She held her cell phone up to her ear with one hand, and with the other she held onto a dog who lay limp on its side. I paused, waiting, hoping to see the rise and collapse of its chest. Its pale yellow fur, uninhabited by wounds, blended with the dry, spring grass. A heart issue? I wondered. I kept walking. I did not want to know the outcome. I did not want to know I saw a dead dog. 

Do you remember? In November, we walked to the second pond on my route to work, Jamaica Pond, to eat our takeout Thai food. This walking path was free from construction, only obstructed by runners, strollers, and couples carrying cups of coffee, all lapping each other around the pond. I ate chicken pad thai and you ate basil fried rice. We sat on rocks cushioned by fallen leaves and watched a dog chase a tennis ball through the water. 

The sun dipped, the color of burnt butter setting in your eyes. I asked to take your photo on my disposable camera. My pointer finger hovered over the shutter button, anticipating a pause in your monologue about posing. I complied and took the picture while you were mid-sentence, and then another while you laughed.

You returned the favor. I sat with my arms around my knees. You strived for the perfect angles and direction and lighting but returned to your original position. That was the third time I felt a strong urge to kiss you but didn’t. 

On my way to work a week later, I walked by that first pond, and a bicyclist almost hit me. Am I invisible here? Am I a walking ghost? 

At least run over my pinky toe. Rip off the nail and give it room to grow. Leave me evidence of my near-death experience. I’ve been hit by a car before, was left with no mark, not even a bruise on my elbow. I told you this on our way to my apartment, right before you sprinted across the road to avoid an accelerating car. I watched your backpack, heavy with a handful of books, thud against your shoulders with every stride. 

I waited for the walk sign and then we skipped on the sidewalk. The irony of almost being hit by the kind of car you once owned, you joked, once we were reunited on the same side of the street. A Toyota Corolla. 

During our last morning together in your bed, I asked if you ever had braces. We were naked and I wanted to touch your teeth. You didn’t have braces, but I did. In middle school. Braces, glasses. acne. 

You dweeb. I would’ve pushed you into the lockers, you told me. 

And sometimes there are things I don’t want to tell you like I never would’ve interpreted that as flirting and you are beginning to leave a bruise. 

During our first morning together, in your bedroom that I flew across the country to see, you asked to kiss me. Yes please, I said. We dressed and undressed and dressed again. You called your mom back during our walk to drink tea and told her your plans for the rest of the year. I pointed to the mountains that enclosed the city, our surroundings shrinking with every step. You planned to move and move and move every few months. You looked to the mountains and back to me. The cafe was packed and the plastic chairs outside hadn’t been shielded from the snowstorm that fell the night before. We barely spoke and I chose the wrong tea. 

I like you but I don’t want to be with you, you said, navigating our way through a construction zone to get to the liquor store. We live so far apart and I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again. 

We took the tram back to your house to drink cocktails with the apple syrup you made and the bourbon we bought. We undressed and dressed and undressed again. I finished and did not tell you. I took a deep breath, your cheek on my bare chest. Rise and collapse. I traced the jagged lifelines on your palm, rubbing two marks that hadn’t yet scarred. Burns? Bites? I wondered. But you had tripped and caught yourself on sharp rocks. There is so much of your life I’ll miss, I thought. 

When I walk by that first body of water, I feel nauseous from missing you. I want to tell you that I saw a dog lying peacefully in the grass, and not that it was dead.

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