"It's Sunday, ain't so?" I ask. Most days I don't know what world I'm in, much less the day.
"Yeah," my husband says. "Did you wash my overhauls?"
I roll my eyes at his word for overalls, then I cringe when he pulls them out of his closet. He's going to wear them again. He disappears into the bathroom with clanking of heavy metal buckles. I wonder what age men should start wearing overalls, but I'm sure it's not forty.
I try to wake my daughter for the third time, but she still won't rise. Acorns sound like rocks hitting the tin roof. Sometimes it's so loud it sends the dog hiding in my daughter's closet.
I'm glad for Sundays. Sunday means rest and my brain feels overheated. On Sundays I can read the Bible, visit family between churches, and practice my ukulele. Jim will be expecting a song. Jim's a long, toothpick of a man with a crooked grin you can't help but smile along with. He lets me watch his fingers when he plays guitar or dobro and I do my best to follow along on the ukulele. He calls it my little guitar. I love Jim and when he tells me to sing, I sing, whether I've practiced or not.
The first fall leaves sail down in the breeze outside the sliding
glass window. It's dreary looking. If it rains I won't be able to take
my ukulele to church with me tonight. My husband said he'd buy me a case
for my birthday, but that was months ago. This year has gone by so
fast. Ever since I started writing Amish books in January it's flew by. I've recently lost count of how many I've written, but I know I just published number nine.
I put on my headcover, a wide band of black, stretchy cloth, and slip on my sandals. It's time to go and I can't wait to get my day of rest started. I warn myself not to speak to any of my Amish characters today, but I doubt that's possible. In my mind another story's already swimming.