Sunday is not yet over and I feel the weight of Monday already upon us. Walking once more down the sidewalk I closed my eyes and let Duncan guide me as I sometimes do. Last night when we walked blind through the park, the snow fluttering on my tender pink eyelids, I listened for his steps, nearly the only thing I could hear amid the clamorous silence of the snowy night. I heard my feet pushing snow forward. I smelled it all around me. I trusted Duncan to guide me, if only for fifty feet. Tonight, on our last walk I closed my eyes again and knew the world had changed: the scent was gone, that crisp, cold linen smell; the flavor of it on my tongue was bitter, like the smell of as invisible gas or oil; the world was rich with sound, none of them as beautiful as the snow falling. And that was how I knew Monday had come. Rush, rush, rush. I feel it all around us. So I came home, wiped off his feet and nose, patted his head once, gathered my knitting and enjoyed the last of the day.