Summer Sundays

buffet illustration

Summer Sundays were always meant for al fresco dinners. An opportunity for a busy family to share the week’s news over a bottle of wine and a table straining with food.

I didn’t see why it had to be different after the accident. Every week I prepared a spread fit for a king, only I was the sole diner.

On Monday mornings, when I opened my curtains and looked out on the patio, the wrought iron chairs had always moved. Haphazardly discarded by ghosts in the night who carried tradition beyond the grave.

I suppose that’s why I never felt lonely.

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