After shooing her grandchildren outside to play in the sun (even though she knew some of them would take naps on the soft grass, in the shade of the stone wall), Mama Chipmunk started her chores.
There were plates and teacups to wash and dry and stack in the dish cupboard; toast crumbs and snippets of quilting thread to sweep up; and dust to wipe off of windowsills and rocking chairs and bookshelves. Once the shelves were dusted, she pulled books down one by one, saying hello and tickling their edges and tops with a feather duster.
In the sleepy quiet of midday — the singing of cicadas and buzzing of bees were the only sounds coming through the window (not just a few, but all of her grandchildren must be napping, she realized) — Mama Chipmunk carried her current-favorite book to her reading corner, intending to dive in for part (or all) of the afternoon. But she, too, fell asleep before she’d read three whole pages.