It was a quiet Sunday last Sunday. Which is the best type in my opinion. The soft light was coming through my curtains casting shadows.
I dozed.
I was halfway through my laundry. Halfway through Shadow of the Thin Man. There was a chicken, half cooked, in the oven.
I wish I could say I was halfway thorough that book but I'm not.
Lots of halves all over the place.
(These roasted apricots were the tastiest though)
The trick with being only half way is often you blink and it's over. Or it gets lost in the haze, never quite as clear as the beginning or the end.
So I'm putting it here, just in case I want to remember some day what it was like to be halfway on a Sunday.
