On Sunday, Ben was sick and I was tired.
I didn't sleep well the night before. I tossed and turned with my brain mechanisms all amuddle and gooped. The projectionist upstairs kept replaying the same wakeful dream over and over till it was all scratched and I couldn't make out the characters. I awoke with a pasty mouth and dark eyes.
The sky looked like black pearls.
I showered because, well, showering always makes a person feel better. Thomas did not shower. Nor did the grizzly bear.
I puttered. A little fertilizer for the African violet. A little blog reading. A little time snipping off the errant carpet fibers.
And then I did one of my most favorite of all things to do. I cooked on a cloudy day, in a warm kitchen while my hound dog slept at my feet. And I listened to Chinese lullabies.
I made tomato basil soup.
At two in the afternoon, I called my boys to come eat. They shuffled in, hair askew pajamas wrinkled. Thom had the haired look of a mad scientist. He had been constructing intricate race tracks for hours. The grizzly grunted.
We sat at the bar sipping our soup and dipping crackers like the three bears from Goldilocks.
This is how, slowly, ever so slowly, we whittled away the hours of a dark day, in a cozy home on a quiet street.