The cat on the corduroy-clad knees purrs in satisfaction, it is a warm cushion, it is a position of trust. The cat is irritated that her host is typing on the computer at the same time, maybe the cat would prefer to have her back stroked.
Easter Monday, a ceremony in springtime taken over by Christianity. The strange mingling of the story of Christ's betrayal and death and the older rituals of fertility, and the finding of hidden eggs.
Easter was a quiet celebration this year, on account of the virus. A sad ceremony for so many, all the newly bereaved, those killed by a virus' sudden appearance in the world.
The cat has jumped down, because the son's alarm clock sounded. The cat has hopes of being fed.
The cat is the only company awake at this hour, the wife is still asleep, she was up late watching television, and the son is still asleep, he was up late chatting with his friends on the computer. Sit and write this, these small accounts of daily non events, things that repeat.
The day is grey.
It is overcast.
And a bit chilly.
Perhaps a walk would be a good idea.
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