Hi everyone. Welcome to Thanks for being here. A short, weekly pod to remind us of the many

essential and beautiful ways we affect one another. Every Sunday, I'll read a submission from a

listener of Kelly Corrigan Wonders. Could be wedding vows or about mitzvah toast, a eulogy or

retirement speech. We believe this is the loveliest way to tap into our better selves and remember

our highest values. We encourage you to share this podcast each week with one person you love.

Maybe someone you miss or need to bring closer. Someone you want to feel your appreciation or

admiration or both. This is Thanks for being here.

This week's Thanks for being here is a beautiful college essay written by Kira McCollough,

who is now at Smith College. She writes about how as a kid she felt this terrific desire to control

every facet of her life, which manifested in of all things mowing the lawn with her dad.

In the summers, together, they trimmed the grass to perfection. As she writes, she could not help

her dad's drinking, but in the mornings, when they mowed together, he was sober. It's a beautiful

essay revealing the struggle to let go in this case of her dad's addiction.

Growing up on Meadow Road, the neighbors must have thought we were a family of neat freaks.

Look close enough and you would notice that the grass on our near naked lawn never grew taller than

an inch. Look from afar and you would see a pattern formed by track marks, a history of the mower's path.

Dad and I spent our hot summer mornings manicuring the lawn. Neither of us could drive on the

real road. I was far too young and he had too many DUIs, so we drove a John Deere lawnmower instead.

When he stepped on the gas, I steered the wheel like the captain of a ship, exploring the depths of

our one acre sea of greenery. I can still remember the loud purring of the motor, the smell of fresh

chappings and the sense of freedom I felt. We felt what the neighbors might have seen as a chore

was an escape for us. Grass was the one thing under our control, it seemed. I couldn't control my

...