Looking for signs of meaning where perhaps there are none

When I walk or run around the neighborhood and spot an unkempt yard — knee high grass, fallen branches, no blooms, shapeless bushes, ripped screens, tree branches hanging heavy on the roof — I wonder if either the very old or the very sad live there.

What do the unfamiliar passers-by make of my robust crop of crabgrass in an otherwise tended yard? I hope they think I’m very organic.

Earlier today Grace was puttering around with the camera, taking pictures of things she was on the verge of throwing away. This is my coping strategy, to make it easy to discard things that have sentimental value. The digital camera can help us hold on to them, even after the shoes, artwork, or unmatched dishes are gone to Goodwill or a landfill.

I poked my head out the front door and said to her, “Please take me an artful photograph of crabgrass for my blog.” Here’s one she offered.

What does my crabgrass means to me? I can only do so much; herein lies my limit. If you want trees and flowers, please look past my grass.

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