We mow the lawn on Saturday.

There is pleasure in the sun. Pleasure in patterns minced by dull swirling blade upon brittle patches of underwatered July grass. My son and I make progress, and we are proud.

The hard work of mowing the lawn, with our little electric mower, with its inconvenient cord that catches on lawn furniture; its angle changes across the yard like some confused sundial. Untangling the cable is a well-lived moment.

We persist until we reach the corner of the yard where a compost bin used to be, and a cool mint fills the air, not horsemint. It is an essence against the fence, where the plant willed itself to flower. Against our wishes.

None of us asked for this, and yet, this is the reward. We sit in shade, in the cool inhale. The brief pleasure.

And we continue to mow.