This afternoon I grabbed a novel and a pair of flip-flops and padded out to the backyard. I sprawled out on the plush carpeting of grass on our gently sloping hill and opened my book. A light breath of a breeze rattled the leaves of the nearby oak trees and the sound of a lawn mower buzzed in the distance.
My toes absentmindedly toyed with blades of grass as I read. The sounds of splashing and high-pitched children’s laughter from a distant neighbor’s pool served as a kind of summer white noise. The lawn, baking in the afternoon sun, sent up a hot, sweet, musky scent.
The sun warmed the back of my legs. My toes curled and uncurled. The steady chuck, chuck, chucking of a neighbor digging in her flowerbeds, hands gloved and hair carefully tied back, continued. I turned the pages of my book and read a passage written with such perfection that I had to set the book down and close my eyes. I lifted my head and took a deep breath.
This, I thought, is the perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
