Scenes from a Sunday Afternoon
It’s quiet. It’s one of those magical moments in which we’re scattered across the house, each of us busy with our own projects, maybe accompanied by a napping dog or two. I love these moments. The weekly chores (vacuuming, I’m looking at you) are done. Evening plans are cancelled. There are no obligations, no expectations.
I’m in the kitchen, baking. I hear the shrieks and giggles of my neighbor’s children through the back door, which is propped open to catch the still-chilly early spring breeze. Honey drips onto my hand from my measuring spoon. Sweet bliss.
Upstairs. A quilt in progress begs for attention, but the warm late afternoon sun is slanting across the floor. The quilt can wait.
On the front porch, I carefully fill eggshells rescued from the compost with potting soil. Ginsburg noses up behind me, curious. There is potting soil under my fingernails, in my hair, covering my apron, and in my clothes. I have just planted a salad garden in an old wheelbarrow, and I am not tidy.
Later, there will be soup for dinner, and bread in the oven. We’ll watch a movie, close the doors and windows against the dark, and enjoy each other’s company. But for now, it’s quiet.