twelve at eleven
Easter Sunday. Lucie, Callum and Pavla flew in on Friday, so this morning there were five of us on Petrov hill: me, Tomáš, Lucie, Callum, and Pavla in a sling, very serious about the sky.
Kundera turns 89 today. I looked it up, then I subtracted, then I counted on my fingers to be sure.
At eleven the bells rang noon. I counted out loud. Tomáš counted with me and said "nine" twice on purpose, to see if I'd notice. I noticed. Twelve, at eleven.
Pavla laughed at the bells. Callum asked why noon was early here, and Lucie told him the Swedish story, wrong, and I let her.
It's Sunday, the first of April, and I have never lived this day before.