Sunday. A day of rest.

The sun fades and the sky changes colour. The clouds are silhouetted by pinks and oranges. The birds chirp, the insects buzz.  Motorbikes hum along the road outside and our neighbours meander along after a day at church. A greeting, a burst of laughter or a baby’s cry pierces the stillness. The air is fresh and the breeze is cool.

Through all this, we laze around on mattresses and cushions on the terrace.
All movements and thoughts are slower. Everyone is lost in a book, their music or even their own thoughts but no minds wander to the week ahead, the work to be done at site – all the land that needs to be cleared and the walls that need to be painted.

We reminisce about the night before – the more entertaining dance moves and absurd conversations. We doze. We share the occasional thought or observation. We briefly cast our minds to making dinner and try to summon the energy to make the short walk to buy food.

And now dusk is upon us and all natural light has gone. But still we remain on the terrace, resting, as we have done all day.

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