Rested

My beloved is in her childhood village with her sick mother for the week. Our daughter went with her and has spent the day hanging with her old friends.

Our lad and I remain at home. He keeps himself out of mischief swinging between Subway Surfers and Turkish TV. He did help me earlier, moving a piece of furniture upstairs. That was after I sliced my shin open on one of its drawer runners. Lovely.

I’ve spent the afternoon retrieving what could be saved from our old summer house, a building in so much decay that I am reminded of that ayat, “everything must perish…” Our old cooker has been eaten by rust, the modest kitchen coated in a layer of grime.

Donning rubber gloves, I’ve been enjoying hours of outdoor washing up, soaking crockery in bleach and soapy water, before bringing them back for another round. Suffice to say, my back is killing me.

But no rest for the wicked. The subway surfer will be growing hungry soon. Let’s see what we can rustle up. Reheated pide probably. We’re missing the other half of us, though I’m not missing the constant bickering between brother and sister at all. Sometimes we need time apart.

It’s quite peaceful here. Outside, I can hear our neighbour walking her cows up the lane for their nightly feed on the verges. Idyllic in many ways. It remains warm outside, but is cool inside. Despite a day kept busy, I feel relaxed here. Despite busy hands, I’m rested.

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