The one day that we have to wake up early.
The sky was grey and cold, and not a single boy was easy to persuade from his warm blanketed cocoon.
Sunday is begging for doughnuts, and settling for cinnamon toast, because we are late, as usual.
Sunday, is the one day mama curls her hair and puts on a dress.
Sunday, we see friends we’ve missed all week. We say things like, “we should get together,” and know that busy lives mean we probably will not.
This Sunday, I’m struck that each little man greets his class with smiles and anticipation. Gone are the days of tearful, wary, clinging goodbyes.
Sunday is a million stories all at once, pouring from the backseat on the way home.
Sunday is famished young men dancing around the kitchen making lunch requests. “Peanut butter and jelly, please.” “Peanut butter and honey for me!” “Do we have chips?” “Can I have a smoothie?” “Can we play Wii when we’re done with lunch?”
Sunday is full of stories to read, laundry to fold, puttering at projects and rolls rising.
and a little boy, who eagerly awaits the moment when the peas that have served as pie crust weights come out of the oven, so that he can toast his little hands on them, run his fingers through them, stuff his pockets with their warmth.
Sunday is nostalgic eating.
For Daddy, it’s pea soup.
For Mama, sweet potato pie.
Sunday is three lamps lit on the table. Three, so that each boy can blow one out when his plate is clean.
Sunday is having enough soup, rolls and pie to share with unexpected dinner guests.
Sunday is warming toes by the fire, and listening to Daddy’s friends swap fish stories.
Sunday is sending friends home with bowls of soup and pie, to go.
Sunday is crawling, at long last, back into those blanketed cocoons, reading stories by lamplight, making plans and promises for the week to come.