We’re driving home from the garden, where we put up netting for the sweet peas, when Gerry says something about going fishing tomorrow—on Saturday—and my head spins.
He tries to make me believe that it’s Friday, not Thursday. I think he’s messing with me.
“What day did I talk to Kristi?” I ask, seeking an anchor for the week.
I could have sworn it was Tuesday, I could allow myself to believe it was Wednesday, but Thursday? Something doesn’t make sense.
We go back and forth and ultimately I’ve no choice but to believe it’s Friday (ah, that explains why the delivery arrived today not tomorrow). Logically, it makes some measure of sense but I still struggle to accept it. Is he messing with me?
Now it’s Saturday (I’m almost certain) and I’m still feeling discombobulated.
But I woke thinking about gardens and plants and plans—too early for most people, but right on time for me.
Gerry’s going fishing today and I’ll wash towels and water plants—Friday things done on a Saturday.