“Happiness makes poetry obsolete,” she said from her spot in the hammock. She rocked back and forth, sunlight dappled through trees scattered across her body like leaves floating on a pond.
He couldn’t hear her over the sound of the lawn mower, which he pushed back and forth across the yard. He moved with vigor and precision, making straight lines of neatly cut grass. But he could see her lips move, so when he got closer he shut the engine off.
“What was that?” he asked. “I missed what you said.”
“I’m happy,” she replied. “That’s all.”
She could picture him, in twenty years. He would move a little slower at eighty, but the lines in the grass would still be as straight. He would be thinner in his arms and shoulders, but he would still be stronger than her. He would still love her.
He leaned over and kissed her before he went back to his yard work.
“You should write that down,” he said.
So she did.
