SUNDAY MORNINGS my child bride slows down for a few moments. Idleness is contrary to her nature.
After bagels and Philly cheese at 8, we often take our cafecitos into the living room and plop atop the scarlet sofa.
That’s where I get an earful about her relatives. Since I have no idea what my relatives (just two alive now, above the Rio Bravo) are doing, I cannot reciprocate.
The son of a nephew here in town turned 6 yesterday. There was a fiesta with hot dogs. She went. I did not.
I noticed the far wall, which was lit by sunshine coming through the large dining room window to the left.
The camera was nearby, so I shot this photo.
The artwork we purchased some years ago from a fellow who walked into a downtown restaurant carrying it. He was the artist, and he was looking to sell. It’s a local scene.
It shows our lake, our beautiful mountains, and that’s how the indigenous women hereabouts dress.
The parrot, which is papier-mâché, was also purchased locally, but in a nearby village. The bird is large, and he keeps a vigilant eye on the living room 24/7.*
These Sunday morning sessions can vary in length. Today’s was relatively brief but — as always — nice.
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* I like to sound hip now and then. Does anyone even say hip anymore? Having to ask lowers my hip status, I guess.