The Woe of Hammock Allergies
He folds himself into the old hammock that hangs between the two best oak trees in the groove and pats the empty space beside him.
I laugh. “You don’t want me to do that. I have a hamock allergy. Every time I sit on one, it breaks. It’s my tragic flaw.”
He smiles. His whole face lights up, and something dances in his eyes which makes me truly believe that a part of him will be a child forever. He finds humor in everything – and isn’t that the best way to live?
“Tragic flaw. Ha,” he’s saying. And then he’s up, and his arms are around my waist. I realize that he’s strong, because somehow, through my endless giggling, he’s hoisted me into the hammock and he settles himself in beside me.
We rock gently, and when the laughter subsides, I feel perfectly comfortable and at ease. One of his arms finds its way around my waist. He’s leaning in to kiss me for the very first time and there’s a loud crack!
And then we’re both on the ground, giggling again, the hammock reduced to a couple of rotted ropes.