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Maggie Slepian | Longreads | May 14, 2026 | 3,297 words (12 minutes)
It is September 2023, and I am standing in my front yard with a leaf bag over my head. A gap-toothed rake lies in a pile of leaves and a thistle stabs the side of my foot. My back aches. A blister pulses on my thumb. It’s sometime in the afternoon, but I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been out here.
Three lopsided leaf bags sit like giant potatoes around the yard, but the fourth bag kept tipping when I tried to dump my rakeful of leaves. I snapped the bag open in a fit, reaching up inside to punch the seams open. Then I let it go, allowing it to settle over my head and fall to my waist. It is quiet inside the leaf bag, and in the visual break from my lawn and five cumulative years of failure, I start crying. The lawn has defeated me.
