The laundry is folded (or doing a passable imitation of folded), the dogs are silent and sleeping, and the house is freshly vacuumed, and even though, an hour later, its efforts have already become hard to spot as a fresh battalion of fur easily reclaims its beachheads, the house is still neat and clean (or doing a passable imitation of neat and clean).
Monday looms like a…like a giant looming thing (sorry, I’ll workshop that), but in my house, Sunday won’t be rushed off the stage. It’s quiet and gray and unabashedly, ubiquitously February, but I have a cup of tea, an interesting book (or a passable imitation of an interesting book), and my home is keeping us warm enough to feel comfortable. February-flavored comfortable to be sure, but that’s OK. Sometimes it’s a good thing to sit calmly in the winter-quiet. Spring, summer and I have always been on the same page, but they carry noises with them, and one of winter’s singular unsung virtues, I think, is its quiet.
This evening, at least, or for at least this fragment of it, all of this will do quite nicely.