This morning is lovely. The house holds the coolness of last night. A bright sun is shining, and the blue sky is cloudless. The breeze is so slight the leaves barely move. Only the songs of some birds disturb the silence. It is only 71°, but the day will get warmer, as high as 78°. Henry is beside me sleeping on the couch. Nala is outside lying in the sun on her favorite spot. If I were to design the perfect summer’s day, it would be today.

I did get to the dump yesterday. It was crowded. Cars waited in line to get into the dump, to drop off recyclables and to dump their trash. My Sunday trash run has been a habit dating back to when I worked. It is time to pick a different day. I’m thinking Thursdays.

When I was a kid, my father always dragged out the barrels on trash day before he went to work. He’d line them up on the curb. When he got home, he’d drag them back to the yard. I remember the trash truck. It was a town truck. A couple of guys who held on to the back jumped off when the truck stopped at barrels. Their clothes were always filthy. I figured they were trash day clothes. The truck was noisy. The back presser would make the loudest noise when it compacted the trash. The trucks went to the town dump to drop off their trash. I didn’t know there was a town dump for the longest time. Here on the cape, you can pay private companies for trash pick-up or you can pay for a town dump sticker, an expensive dump sticker, but people prefer to pay for the sticker, a cheaper option in the long run, and go to the dump themselves. I always meet people I know at the dump. It is also the spot for candidates in local elections to say hello, shake hands and ask for votes.

When I was in Ghana, during my first year, we were forbidden to drive a car or own a motorcycle. The exceptions to the motorcycle rule were guys who were track coaches and had to travel from school to school. The Peace Corps gave them motos as the Ghanaians called them. The rule was changed for all of us my second year so I bought a Honda 90. I bought that size because I always wore a dress, and the 90 kept me modest, not straddled over the middle of a larger bike. I remember my first ride. It was when I bought the bike and rode from Tamale to Bolga, a trip of 162 kilometers or 101 miles. I loved every mile except for the bugs I swallowed. I stopped a couple of times just to stretch my legs. Lorries and cars honked as they passed by me. People waved from them and from villages I passed on the way. It felt as if I was flying. It was remarkable.

The air is so thick, as the saying goes, you can cut it with a knife. It is damp, wet. The sky is cloudy. It is breezy, a constant breeze. The temperature is only 69°, a chilly morning. It might rain. Today is dump day, and the weather is perfect for a trip to the dump. I’d hate to waste sunshine on trash.

Henry has become suspicious of me. When I let him in, I sometimes spray his infection and rub his eyes with an anti-itch medication. This morning I did neither. I figured it would keep him off-balance and make him less suspicious.

Sunday has always been my least favorite day of the week. When I was a kid, if it weren’t for Sunday dinners, it would have been a completely wasted day. Sunday mornings meant mass, enough said about that. Some afternoons we’d visit my grandparents. My sisters loved to go to East Boston to visit as they had cousins to play with. I was too old for play. My aunt, five months younger than I, was unpleasant. She hated that so many of her siblings and their families visited. She usually stayed in her room, out of bounds for everybody. What I did love was the pasta. My grandmother always had a giant pot of pasta on the stove, sometimes shells, my favorite. It had that day after taste when the pasta and the sauce have melded perfectly. She kept Parmesan cheese and a grater on the table. I covered my pasta with a layer of that cheese then mixed the heavenly concoction. Sometimes there was Italian bread, and I’d cut a slice, an imperfect slice. I’d sit at the kitchen table between the aunts to eat.

During the school year, on Sunday nights, we had to go to bed early. “School tomorrow,” was always my mother’s reason as if Saturday and Sunday had so discombobulated our usual routines we had to be retrained. I’d usually read a little before my mother would yell up the stairs for me to turn off my light. I’d sometimes keep reading with a flashlight or my headboard lamp, hidden under covers.

The week began when my mother woke us up on Monday mornings. Every weekday had the same pattern between waking up and going to bed. It was a groove.