The yellow curtain valance above the sink featured a maraschino print that suggested a cheerfulness that Hanna didn't feel. She had selected the window treatment herself, many years ago when Sam and her had first moved into the neighborhood, before kids, before restrictive budgets, and before Hannah could have ever imagined that life with Sam could be anything but perfect.
Now the days dragged on, one gray harsh day after another, cleaning up messes, meting out punishment and reward, cooking and dusting and generally being taken for granted. Currently, the children where playing some made up tackling game in the front yard while Hanna stood elbows deep in soapy water, rewashing the same dishes that never seem to stay clean. She could see them out the window which was hung with the cherry print valance that was now at least 14 years old. Their exuberant voices carried through the thin pain of glass as crunchy orange leaves fell all around them.
Sam was in the garage, working on one of his latest projects. Hanna didn't even know what that might be. She had long ago realized that the garage was his retreat, that he went there to be left alone. Even the children knew that when he was in there he was not to be disturbed. Hannah herself had no such consideration. She could be interrupted at any time for the littlest thing. She couldn't remember a time when she had taken a bath- or even a shower without a knock on the door and a problem that could only be handled by Mommy.
Even now, with her hands wet and soapy, in the midst of her endless daily chores, she knew she was not safe from interruption. Sure, the children seemed busy and happy, but a fight could break out, or one of the kids might decide that a snack was in order, and come tracking leaves and mud in and demanding to be fed. Then she would have to dry her hands and switch gears in order to prevent said child from trying to do it themselves (if it was Anne) and making a bigger mess for her to clean, or sitting at the table and whining (if it was Shelby or Bert) until she felt like she was going crazy.
Lately, Hanna had just started feeling so tired and worn, as dry and aged as the window curtains. She stands in faded jeans, swishing a dishcloth over a chipped plate in lukewarm water. The stack of plates and cups curved menacingly toward her threatening to collapse, to tumble down upon her and buried alive. She wondered how that would be any different from the way she currently felt, buried alive by her housework and family responsibilities.
She pushed her ash blonde hair behind an ear with her elbow, and thought about Lazarus, friend of Jesus, dead and buried and raised up again. "I need a resurrection," Hannah thought, not without some bitterness. She still went to Church two times a week, less because of any strength of faith than because it was the most peace and quiet she was ever afforded at one time.
She was lucky enough not to have a fire and brimstone pastor, but a soft-spoken young minister who was, if she let herself admit it about a married man of God, quite easy on the eyes. His lean body, disarmingly distinguished in dark suits and bold colorful ties, probably picked out by his wife to bring out the clear blue of his eyes. Hannah had always had a weakness for men with dark hair and blue eyes, perhaps it was the unexpectedness of the combination that made her feel week in the knees.
Hannah tried to be good, to do the things she was supposed to, to fulfill her duties with a cheerful heart, to keep her thoughts pure. But life had worn her down, and sometimes her own private thoughts were the only joy she could find in life. She felt guilty, sitting in a pew with the hymnal in her hands, and her own husband standing next to her, wondering what the good reverend's lips might feel like on her neck, what his hand would feel like on the small of her back.
