Adam shook his head and huffed a brief laugh as he wheeled the garbage can to the curb.

Another Sunday night, he thought. Wasn’t just yesterday last Sunday?

The robins chit-chatted about some matter or another as the sun set.

The days of the week now passed in a blur, a pleasant blur to be sure: Facetiming with the grandkids, going out to breakfast, cards on Wednesday nights, pickle ball on Friday mornings, grocery shopping, cleaning, doctor appointments . . . but there was always that quiet moment on Sunday nights down at the curb with the robins or rustling leaves or the neighbor and his dog padding along through a skiff of snow. Sunday night at the curb was when time stopped, and when it started up again, it would go faster than it did the week before.

Another Sunday.

Adam ran into the house. “We did it, Dad! We did it!” he shouted, waving his newly acquired Baltimore Oriole World Series pennant. Adam’s parents had taken him to the fourth, and as it turned out, deciding game of the 1966 World Series. Frank Robinson had homered off Don Drysdale for the game’s only run. “We sure did, Adam!” said his father. “Ain’t the beer cold!”

All of Baltimore loved that Sunday evening.

Adam waved to his neighbor across the street. He was just finishing up a Wiffle ball game with his young son.

Returning to the porch, he sat on the swing next to Kate. Her nose and cheeks were a bit red from their weekend at the beach. “Should we tell them?” asked Kate.

“Tonight’s as good a time as any,” he answered. Adam took Kate’s hand and they walked into the house. “Mom, Dad,” he began. “Kate and I are engaged.”

The crickets and tree locusts began to compete with the robins. Someone way down the street was wheeling his garbage cans to the curb, too.

Adam walked back into the house. Kate was just hanging up the phone. “Adam,” she said, working to control her voice. “Your dad just died.”

Adam hung his head. “He had a good life,” he said. Kate swallowed him in her arms and he began to cry softly on her shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” asked Laura.

“Grandpa died,” answered Kate.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dad,” said Laura, who began to cry as well.

Huh, thought Adam. All those things happened on a Sunday. Well, maybe they happened. Sometimes, especially on Sunday and most especially at dusk, he wondered if they ever really did happen. Maybe he was just remembering a movie that he saw about the life of a guy named Adam. Maybe he’d always lived here on this street and maybe he had been 67 years old his entire life. He could comprehend being 67, but the idea that his dad had been dead for 20 years—20 years!—that was incomprehensible. Or was it 21? He must have actually attended that World Series game because the pennant still decorated a wall in his basement. Couldn’t have been yesterday, because the pennant read 1966.

Still at the curb, Adam saw a light go on upstairs. That was Kate, already putting on her pajamas. She wasn’t part of a movie. . . . Still. . . .

Adam shook his head and huffed a brief laugh as he headed back to the house.

Another Sunday night, he thought.