The Sunday That Asked Nothing

November eighteenth.

There's a version of a day off where you have a list, errands, emails, at least one thing you've been putting off since October. And then there's a Sunday like this one, where the list exists somewhere but the afternoon gets long and golden before you've looked at it, and by the time 4pm arrives you've mostly just moved between the kitchen and the couch and made two cups of tea and that's the whole account.

I didn't take any photographs of anything meaningful. I didn't cook anything new. I did look at the windowsill for a long minute while I was waiting for the kettle, the collapsed bowl, the letterpress card, the two photographs from Carol, the small object that arrived in an index card envelope three years ago, and I thought about nothing in particular.

the windowsill, unchanged, November 2019

It's been that way for a while now, that arrangement. Unchanged. I notice it sometimes the way you notice a piece of furniture: it's just there, doing its job, holding the light differently depending on the time of year. Today the light was low and came in at an angle that made everything look a little patient. I didn't have anything to add to that thought, so I didn't.

the look of a Sunday that has nowhere to be

I've been thinking about Carol a little, still, the echo of what she named in her letter, what she chose to learn, how it landed. That post has settled. The thread feels quiet now in the good way, the way a room feels after you've tidied it without really planning to. I keep noticing that the windowsill hasn't changed in years and I keep not being bothered by it, which I think is either the answer or the beginning of a different question. Today it was just the answer. The kettle boiled. I made the tea. The afternoon kept going.