The grass smelled so familiar, but I had trouble placing it as we walked across the rolling landscape of the dog park. Yes, there was the familiar ting of dog excrement, baked over time on the crumbling, over-heated sidewalk. That went without saying. But there was something else—like dust and sand and rocks and water… like running through the rusty sprinkler in the center of the playground in the middle of the tiny borough where I grew up. Like other people’s lunches and the far-off sound of the ice cream truck. It was the crab grass of my youth.