give me a daisy

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on sunday morning

Sunday

Sunday (Photo credit: ex.libris)

On Sunday morning, Lessie woke up late, tangled in a nest of her own black hair, which she hadn’t pinned up before falling asleep. She’d been too downhearted last night to do the normal things she did on a normal evening before going to bed—things like washing her face and brushing her teeth and breathing a prayer of thanks for the wondrous day and asking for a dreamfull night. Yesterday hadn’t been wondrous or any kind of normal and she hadn’t wanted to dream. All she’d wanted to do was fall into a senseless void where she could forget herself, forget her body, forget the things her eyes had seen and her ears had heard when she walked into the house late in the afternoon. The blue canvas shopping bag had slipped from her fingers to the floor, so the eggs smashed and the milk spilled, and the frightened cat dove out the open window. Thelma and Eddie just got up from the couch, fixed their clothes, and walked out the front door together, slow and easy, with only a sideways glance in her direction, while her heart fell on the floor and got stuck together with the broken eggs and the spilled milk. She had left the whole heartbroken mess where it was, to be cleaned up in the morning; which was now.

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2 thoughts on “on sunday morning

  1. Great post. It illustrates why you MUST get back to Skin of Glass!

  2. No pressure, huh? 🙂

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