Sunday afternoon. She was on the couch under the blanket. A book open on her knees. She had read maybe three pages in an hour and did not feel guilty about it. Outside, a neighbor mowed; a bird called. Inside her nothing was moving. She was not savoring the moment — that would have been another kind of doing. She was just here. The couch was the couch. The blanket was the blanket. The afternoon was Sunday.
