An elderly couple from a small Midwestern town had been married for nearly sixty years. They’d weathered the storms of life together — raising children, paying off a mortgage, watching the world change around them. Now, in their twilight years, they found joy in the smallest things: a morning cup of coffee, a walk through the garden, or a quiet night spent side by side.
But this particular night would turn out to be far from quiet.
It started, as so many things do, with a sound.
As the couple crawled into bed, settling beneath their worn patchwork quilt, the old man shifted his weight, sighed in comfort, and suddenly let out a loud fart that echoed through the room like a trumpet.
Without missing a beat, he grinned proudly and announced, “Seven points!”
His wife turned toward him, squinting in confusion. “What on earth are you talking about?” she asked.
“Football,” he said, with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “That was a touchdown. Seven points!”
She rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harold.”
But after a moment, curiosity — and mischief — got the better of her. She waited a few seconds, scrunched her face, and answered with a toot of her own. Then she smiled triumphantly and declared, “Touchdown! Tie game!”
Harold chuckled, adjusting his pillow. “You call that a touchdown? That was barely a field goal!”
“Oh, don’t be such a sore loser,” she teased.
A few seconds later, Harold grunted, shifted again, and let out another thunderous contribution to the “game.” He lifted his hand in victory. “Fourteen to seven! Back in the lead!”
His wife, unable to resist, responded with a high-pitched squeak that made her giggle uncontrollably. “Extra point!” she shouted. “Fourteen to fourteen!”
The bedroom filled with laughter — the kind of genuine, belly-deep laughter that only comes from years of shared love and comfort. The “game” continued, each of them taking turns, competing like two kids in a playground rivalry. They laughed so hard that tears rolled down their cheeks.
At one point, Harold threw his arms in the air and declared, “This is sudden death overtime, Marge! Winner takes all!”
“Oh, I’ll give you sudden death if you keep that up,” she said between giggles. “You’re going to gas us both out of this bed!”
They laughed until their sides hurt. The night, meant for sleep, had turned into their own private comedy show — a silly, playful battle that reminded them why they’d made it this far together.
A Marriage Built on Humor
The next morning, sunlight crept through the curtains, and Marge woke first. Harold was snoring softly beside her, his hand resting on her arm — a habit he’d had since their first night as newlyweds.
She smiled. Even after six decades, the man still found ways to surprise her. She thought about the night before and chuckled quietly to herself. That ridiculous “football game” had been childish, yes, but it had also been perfect.
When people talked about long marriages, they always mentioned love, respect, or patience. But Marge knew the real secret was humor. Without laughter, the hard days would have crushed them long ago.
She got up slowly, careful not to wake him, and shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee.
A few minutes later, Harold appeared in his robe, rubbing his eyes. “Morning, champ,” she said, handing him a mug.
“Morning, loser,” he replied with a grin. “Score’s still fourteen to fourteen, you know. You didn’t get the extra point in before you fell asleep.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You were counting in your sleep? That’s sad, Harold.”
“Not sad. Strategic,” he said, taking a sip. “You can’t let your guard down in the fourth quarter.”
They ate breakfast together, teasing and laughing, reminiscing about their younger days. Their banter was effortless, the rhythm of two people who’d known each other so long they could finish each other’s thoughts — or, in this case, their jokes.
A Life Remembered
After breakfast, Harold went out to feed the birds while Marge tidied up. As she wiped down the counter, she found herself thinking back over their life together — the hard times, the heartbreak, the losses.
They’d lost friends, siblings, even a child years ago. Each time, life had felt impossibly heavy. But somehow, laughter had always found its way back into their home. Harold had a gift for that. He could turn sorrow into humor without ever diminishing the pain — like opening a window in a room full of grief to let in just a little light.
She smiled again, remembering the night he’d first made her laugh so hard she cried. It had been their honeymoon. The hotel room had been freezing, the heater broken. They’d bundled together under a thin blanket, and when Harold accidentally knocked a lamp off the nightstand, he’d said, “Well, at least now we can’t see how ugly this room is.”
Even now, sixty years later, that same mischievous spark was alive in him.
Later That Evening
That night, after dinner, they watched a rerun of Wheel of Fortune, both shouting answers at the screen. When the show ended, they sat in silence for a moment, holding hands.
“Remember last night?” Harold asked suddenly, smirking.
“How could I forget?” she said. “You nearly shook the bed apart.”
He chuckled. “You know, I think that was our best game yet.”
“Game?” she said, feigning offense. “You call that a game? You lost, old man. Fair and square.”
Harold raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? I distinctly remember finishing with a two-point conversion.”
She rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t a conversion — that was a cry for help.”
They both burst out laughing again.
Moments later, the laughter gave way to a comfortable silence. Marge reached over and rested her head on his shoulder.
“You know,” she said softly, “I think laughter’s kept us alive all these years.”
Harold nodded. “That, and your cooking.”
“My cooking? You’ve spent sixty years complaining about my cooking!”
He smiled. “Yeah, but I’d take another sixty just to complain about it some more.”
She laughed and squeezed his hand. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” he said.
A Simple Truth
Long after the lights went out, the two lay awake, talking in hushed tones about everything and nothing — their children, their youth, the world as it used to be.
Then, just as sleep began to settle over them, a small, familiar sound broke the quiet.
“Touchdown,” Harold whispered.
“Oh, you didn’t,” Marge said, half laughing, half groaning.
He grinned in the dark. “Final score: twenty-one to fourteen.”
“Keep it up and you’ll be sleeping on the couch,” she warned.
“Worth it,” he replied.
Marge laughed softly, rolling toward him. “You’re ridiculous,” she said.
“I know,” he whispered. “But I’m yours.”
And as they drifted off to sleep — still teasing, still laughing — the room filled not with silence, but with something far better: the sound of two lives intertwined, still finding joy in the simplest, silliest moments after a lifetime together.
Because love, at its truest, doesn’t always sound like poetry.
Sometimes, it just sounds like laughter in the dark — and the echo of an old man saying, “Seven points.”
