Sunday, September 11, 2011
the rest of the day
It couldn’t be just a regular Sunday. Even as it was so predictable, that I could have written its script days ago. We work – each in our own way. And we sink into the quiet of the day. It's what we want.
We bike a little too. A short distance. To the café and back. 7.51 miles. That’s a nothing ride. Good nonetheless.
Eventually, I cook and Ed scrapes paint off the boards near the roof of the farmhouse.
Warm, it is warm. When my daughter comes for Sunday dinner, we take our food out to the porch again.
And it's a good day to turn some of the plums into plum ice cream.
Perhaps not a normal day. But warm. Inside and out.
We bike a little too. A short distance. To the café and back. 7.51 miles. That’s a nothing ride. Good nonetheless.
Eventually, I cook and Ed scrapes paint off the boards near the roof of the farmhouse.
Warm, it is warm. When my daughter comes for Sunday dinner, we take our food out to the porch again.
And it's a good day to turn some of the plums into plum ice cream.
Perhaps not a normal day. But warm. Inside and out.
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