Grass and sidewalks

I took the pampered pooch for a walk. Oppulent, winding streets paved the way for our mini journey outside of the gated complex. Sprawling sidewalks, the only cracks being the horizontal ones showing their individual placements. No gaping chunks taken out. No cobblestone detailing. All even and flowing, like the fountain bursting skyward near the wrought-iron gates.
We walked near the stone-lined fountain and bounded down the steps, avoiding the grassy area, still wet from the sprinklers. I hadn't seen long plots of unnatural grass in over two weeks. The last grassy area I remember seeing was in front of the mortuary near the cop shop downtown. The grass was a facade of cheerfulness, green and lush, manicured and perfect.
The dog paused.
I opened the gate.
It's a little tricky because it leans forward on its hinges as if to suggest you can just push through it.
You have to pull it.
We walk through and across more grass.
Wet grass.
The dog steps off of the curb and onto the pavement. He never liked getting his paws wet, even as a puppy. I remember him looking back at me after I told him to go potty in the backyard which was in the midst of a flurry of misting sprinklers. The morning drink. He wouldn't even go near it and if you tried to shove him in that direction, he avoided you. I swear, if he had a tail (he's a cockapoo) it would've been tucked between his legs.
Not much has changed with him since he was a puppy. Still head-strong and wanting to pull away. But he always comes back, always looks back at me.
As we strolled through the gate and down the sidewalk bordering the main street, the smell of Prescott flooded my nostrils. Pine trees...in Phoenix.
It took me back.
We still walked.
I remember the night so clearly. The stars covering an infinite expanse of sky. The moon glowing brightly overhead. The grass slightly damp. Me worrying that my jeans would be stained when I got up from the grass.
Wet grass.
We weren't supposed to be on the grass as much as we had been. But we played football and bocce ball anyway. This night, we just layed on our backs, gazing into oblivion. I don't remember what we talked about that night or where everyone else was, but I remember it was the 4th of July. It was the first time I hadn't watched the fireworks on television. We never went out to see the fireworks. Too many drunks on the road. Too many people. Just too much. So we watched it on television.
That night there were no fireworks. Only the scent of wet grass, pine needles and an enormous sky. My arm bent behind my head, I remember silence. I remember the giddiness, the awkwardness, the tenderness. We had only known each other for a short time. But I was falling for him. It was just he and I that night.
The dog kept walking.
His nose was pressed near the ground, every so often bumping into a small twig, yanking his head up startled. Lost in the grey shadows of the night and dimlit sidewalk.
I sorted through my thoughts like my laundry. The darks, one pile. The lights and pure whites, another. And in the end, I didn't have enough to make a substantial load from each so I bound them together. I'd separate them later when they were fresh again.
Normally I had felt nervous walking at night. Thoughts of being grabbed from behind or from the bushes nearby. The dog wouldn't make any difference. He'd just think we were playing and run around in circles chasing his non-existent tail.
But tonight was different.
I was alone and had a strange sense of security. My God has always been with me. Always. I shouldn't fear for this reason and yet, still a sense of frailty. Tonight I walked down a sidewalk without cracks, without gaping holes or broken cobblestone. With even-layed cement, without unnaturally slanted curbs. I walked in the tidy grass and I turned to go back to the gated place.
My heart half there yet halfway gone, torn between oppulence and poverty. Between the beggers and the begged. Between the unloved and the overly-loved. Between the manicured grass and the crab grass, the cracked sidewalks and smooth surfaces. Between the dirt and the flowers, the pine trees and the saguaros, the barred windows and well-lit porches. Between darks and lights, shabby and chic, trendy and ordinary.
As we headed back, the dog picked up his pace. He was in such a hurry, I couldn't help but yank him back a little.
Slow down.
Take in the night.
The peace.
The safety.
But I know the hurry, the flurry, the busyness and bustle. The sense of responsibility and irrationality, impetuousness and caution.
I can't get the dog to find a balance so I pull him closer to my side, wrapping the leash once, twice, three times, four times, five times around my palm, a coil binding my fist.
He slowed a bit and this time, he was forced to walk in the wet grass next to me.
And for once, he didn't seem to mind.