Opening the squeaking screen door into the chilly spring air, I smelled the grass first. Cut that afternoon, the air was awash with the smell. The neighbor’s security light cast harsh shadows across the lawn and a harsher glare if I looked up. So I kept my eyes down. The world flattened in the bright influence of the light with everything being either light or dark. I walked, balancing, along the old railroad ties forming the border between gravel and grass. The smell changed and grew as I moved. Onions. Little green shoots above with milky white bulbs unseen below, dot the yard. In the mingling smells of clover and onion, my mind imagines the mower severing each shoot. The aromas released linger in the air and waft upward. The dog finishes her business and I tread over the grass and onion shoot mixture that has become the top layer of the lawn in order to clean up after. Each step imprinting itself upon the grass before almost springing back to its previous place. I savor the feeling of the soft grass beneath my feet. The patterns which shape our lives are punctuated by experiences which force themselves upon our memories. It was a regular night taking out the dog in early spring but became so much more with the smell of wild onions