Sundays were the dark days. Throughout the week she gathered her disappointments in a basket and left them in the cellar, out of sight, out of mind; somewhere she never dared to tread with the shadows of midnight trailing her steps. She was weakest in the evening, when the sun had fled the sky and nothing but the lonely moon shone down on her, casting the fields in an eerie ghoulish light. Whispers of her sorrows cried in the wind, shaking the old boards of the house and creaking against the glass. With the daily failures kept so out of reach, the nights passed.
Never quickly, but pass they always did. She could recall nights that never would; nights that hung in the hollows of her skeleton like enemy flags on her land. Traitorous and mocking, a reminder for the sake of remembering.
On Sundays, she would sort through them all, laying them out in compulsive piles before hanging them out to dry. With the sunlight guarding her from the nocturnal predators of her soul, she could scrub the darkness from the fabric and watch the silver linings glint and gleam in the light.