unsettled

this lasted mere minutes

Sundays used to have a feel to them. Not that we were ever churchers.

 Food shopping. A meal prepared to be shared by two or four at most. Never strangers. The Sunday New York Times, filled mostly with benign entertainment and destined to soak up bacon grease. Cannolis. An old movie on TV. Some laundry. The prosiest stuff.  All of it wisped away. 

I had to move my car today so I wouldn't be blocked in tomorrow morning. When I got out of the car, the sun seemed wrong in the sky. That Saharan dust being brought down by intermittent monsoon-style rain has affected the light, as if the clouds are too thick, too low. 

I dead-headed the marigolds in that hard light. I was having a hard time accepting that this was Sunday now. The heat and humidity were smothering. Back inside, I collected my wits with some stitching and some reading, then stumbled across this breath of fresh air:                       Wheesht by Kate Davies.