A little rain. A mug of good coffee. Green view of morning. G across from me, the two fluffy cats and the small dog.

Then horrible news I can do nothing with. A van has driven into people, rampage killing. I hear this. I look out into the woods. The rain will stop and I will plant my dahlias. It is Sunday. I love Sundays. The Phoebes are singing with the Robins. A beautiful morning.

I hear we are becoming numb, hardened, desensitized, cold, unfeeling. A hummingbird hovers and dips into the petunias outside my window.

For breakfast I have thick slices of homemade bread toasted with cheddar and ginger marmalade. After John was killed I could not eat. I could only sleep.

Three acres holds me. Out there, well things happen here too. My old cat died. My sweet cousins boy died. My mom took her life.

I have ideas getting me all excited. Sewing ideas people will ‘get a kick out of.’ I want to get up in the morning. When I was sixteen our house was burned to the ground. A year later, after it was rebuilt, it was torched again. This killed our family a little.

Yesterday I stood on the yellow garden chair to peak at the Phoebe nest. Four birds crammed together exploded into flight, straight up into the cedars, fully fledged they joined their screaming parents.

I smile at people. I like to share myself this way. I notice I use the word love. I love the woods, I love this coffee, I love walking through the fields, I love the way we live, I love my little dog, I love sewing, I love books, I love my home.

Here is my Sunday. There is your Sunday. You cannot have my Sunday.


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