Sunday is sunny.
It's spring and I need to clean up the sad plants on my patio;
You know, the dead ones from last summer.
I take them across the street and dump them in the woods.
Why?
Because dead plants smell.
They smell like shit.
Stupid plants fight back, and one sends a sliver under my index fingernail.
I break the sliver off trying to get it out.
When I finally take tweezers to it, the splinter is almost an inch long stuck under the nail in my skin.
Then I sweep the patio and wash off the chairs.
Sad, sad chairs.
So sorry, sad chairs.
This will be your last spring because these sad chairs are stained.
I roll the table set outside from the living room, where it spent most of the winter.
I make myself some sangria and sit outside to read magazines and get some sun.
I don't use sunscreen today.
I want vitamin D and my skin craves warmth.
A little too much warmth.
Sitting outside combined with an earlier stroll around town leaves me sunburned --
Mostly across my chest.
I see strap marks and can see where my shirt was sitting a little sideways:
My decolletage is slightly skewed from the awkward slant of the white/red delineation.
Soon a friend calls.
We sit outside and drink more sangria at her house then go to the store for hot dogs.
One barbecue and some crackers and cheese later, I head home.
It's seven p.m.
Time for a shower and some television shows (episodes of Wicked Tuna).
Sunday slows to a stop, making me as sad as my sad, stained chairs and my sad, dead plants.
Sadder, even.
Come on, Sun.
Now that you're here, stay a while because I missed you so much.
