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.

ten years

I don’t know that there is a person in America who doesn’t take the time today to think of this day ten years back.

Ten years. It’s not a long time. I was born eight year after the end of World War II and it felt as if my country, Poland, then and throughout my childhood was still sifting through rubble.

And yet, ten years can be a very long time. In that period so many other lives have been tragically lost, so many babies born, so many hurricanes, so many mornings of perfect sunrise.

A cornflower blue day today. Warm, mostly sunny. More subdued than it was then, ten years ago today.