Abe sat at the picnic table in his back yard, sipping a cool lemonade his wife Sara had just brought him. He wiped his brow with the torn T-shirt he was wearing, and looked out over his freshly mown lawn.

            Sara was of the opinion he shouldn’t push the lawn mower himself, at the age of 75. They could certainly afford a lawn service, she’d pointed out on more than one occasion. But, truth be told, Abe enjoyed pushing the mower up and down, tracing the same familiar patterns around the trees and shrubs. He loved the smell of the grass clippings. Even more, he loved the sense of accomplishment that came with that smell: one more job completed, and completed well.

            For Abe, life was good. He’d had a successful career, a long and happy marriage of over 50 years, money in the bank — always more than they’d needed. Abe and Sara owned their house, free and clear. It had belonged to Abe’s father before him.

            If Abe had any disappointment in life, it was that he and Sara had never managed to have children — although they did see a lot of the nephews and nieces who lived in town (especially that fine young man, Lot, who lived around the corner).

            Sara was seated at the kitchen table, leafing through a pile of real-estate brochures. Each of them depicted one of those gated adult communities. Maybe this was the year, she told herself. Maybe this was the year they’d actually do it: put a “For Sale” sign on the front lawn, and simplify their lives. Those glossy photos in the brochures looked awfully tempting, she had to admit, showing a golf course, swimming pool and clubhouse. Why, all the outside maintenance is covered by the monthly membership fee! Yes, Sara said to herself. Maybe this was the year they’d make the move.

            Sitting at the picnic table in the back yard, tracing patterns with his finger in the frost on his lemonade glass, Abe hears the Voice. “Go!” says the Voice. That’s all it says: just “Go!”

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