Our house smells like Sunday. I fried some chicken and baked a few potatoes. I haven’t done that in about two years. Fried chicken, I mean. It’s not the most delightful task for a vegetarian, but the wife in me got it done. I bought it, I soaked it, I floured and fried it. Now my husband has something to eat for the next few days.
Our house smells like Sunday and it’s quiet now. The boys are out on an evening walk, the dishwasher’s done and the oil isn’t crackling on the stove. The t.v. is off and I can hear myself think again. I love this moment of silence and solitude. It’s difficult to write when all the noises of my life join together and whirl themselves around me at the same time. I tend to get headaches in the early evening and it seems they are only cured with silence and ice cream. Silence. And ice cream.
Our house smells like Sunday and my son hurt his knee. The men have returned and my husband tells me something about coyote ridge and a tumble to the ground. The little boy leans into a limp with a hand on his leg. His expression is grave, but strong. The sound of my concern twists him briefly toward tears, but he stops and just looks at the scrape. When I suggest a bath, he seems relieved to have purpose beyond the injury. He manages to climb the flight and peel off his clothes. He pulls himself into the tub and carefully submerges his broken skin.
Our house smells like Sunday and is noisy again. The purple hare from BunnyTown is talking on my son’s video game. The San Diego Padres are playing baseball on t.v. My keyboard is clicking. The microwave hums. My husband wrangles a plastic wrapper from some kind of evening snack. A bottle cap pops. Outside is the sound of a car as it beeps itself in for the night.
Our house smells like Sunday and I’m ready for a break in the heat wave, a return to fresh air and a lowered electric bill. The air conditioning is killing us. Or saving us. I forget which we like more, is it money or comfort? Oh, to have both. We need to make adjustments to our house and maybe to our income. It seems complicated and daunting. I don’t do well with that. When I try to list them, the things we need to do around here look a lot like the junk drawer – chaotic, crowded, confusing. One at a time. I’ll just try to do them one at a time.
Our house smells like Sunday and we’re in for the night. The cats are fat and fed. The lights are dimmed and the t.v. volume thankfully lowered once more. The video games are finished and the tub is drained. My husband has taken my son up to bed. My eyes are tired and my brain is fuzzy. The a/c is off and I’ve opened the door to check the night air. It’s cooler, but heavy. It doesn’t help with the scent of the fried chicken.
Our house smells like Sunday.