Today, I am on a mission. A mission to find a clover. Not just any clover, but a four-leaf clover. Each delicate blade of grass slips between my fingers, still slippery from the morning dew. As I rummage through a patch of clovers, I turn up empty.
The park meadow’s green stretches further than I can see. From afar each blade of grass blends into an evenly level height. Yet, as I approach a new section, I see the imbalance I could not see in one piece.
The section by the trees are sparse with clovers, but abundant with acorn caps. I wonder where all the acorns are themselves, then I spot the squirrels in the trees above staring at me, rubbing their maniacal furry itty-bitty hands together. The sight is a bit unsettling, so I venture away from the trees and into the open field.
Pops of lavender spring up, taller than the sea of green it rests in. I know lavender is nothing more than a beautiful distraction.
I keep skimming through the grass for clovers. Each batch I inspect with a grace that would even have a surgeon envious. Despite my grit and valor, I turn up empty over and over.
The sun lashes my head from directly above. I start to feel heavy, sneezing from the pollen I disturb into the air each time I swath my palms over the turf. I sneeze even more vigorously as I use my pointer finger to rub my nose and realize in hindsight the dander now coats my face from cheek to cheek.
I decide to call Uncle Harry, to see if we can go home.
He is down by the car, resting in his naval officer suit, hat drawn down to block out the sun. Occasionally the dandelion stalk shuffling in-between his teeth would toss into the caps bill.
Uncle Harry asks what is wrong, sighting my slump shoulders and head staring at the ground still searching for a last second capture.
I tell Uncle Harry of my mission.
He chuckles, bends down, and plucks a four-leaf clover from right below us. Clenching the rare treasure in his fist at first, then lowering his clasp hand to my eyesight as I peel each finger back, revealing the four-leaf clover with now slight crumbles.
Before I can even gather my shock and awe, my uncle flecks the clover off his palm and a breeze drifts it away into the grass field behind us.
I ready myself to dash back into the meadow. My uncle gently grabs me by my shirts collar and twists me back towards the car.
We are going home.
Why?
Because, you make your own luck.
I get in the car and we drive off. I do not fret. Tomorrow I will be back looking again. I plan to make my own luck, that is the mission.
Eric Persaud is an Indo-Guyanese American living in New York City. He is currently working on his doctoral dissertation in Public Health and writing stuff in his free time.