Sunday Mornings

Sunday mornings used to be ours. You know, before marriage, before the kids, before the chaos, and before the early morning wake-ups. We would bask in them the way a seal basks in the sun after a long swim. The sun would come streaming in, yet still muted, through the thin, closed blinds in our small but cozy bedroom. The only noise from the rest of the house, if we held our breaths and listened very intently, was the low hum from the mammoth refrigerator three rooms over. Perhaps a dog or two would stir, from their spot on the rugs beside the bed, but they knew better than to try to jockey for position on the bed. It was off limits, save for the two of us, in our own little Sunday morning cocoon.

The walls in there were painted a kelly shade of green…”

Then we would begrudgingly roll out of bed, me on my side, and she on hers, as the dogs would yip at our feet, ready for the morning walk that would have to wait. You see, she had gotten out of bed very early to let them out so they could do their business, so the walk was no real hurry. Instead, we would head into the kitchen for the traditional Sunday morning coffee. The walls in there were painted a kelly shade of green, which always made me feel like I was entering a jolly forest every single time I walked into its confines. While the room was small, it was also inviting, a trait of pretty much every room in our small, white bungalow on East Street.

Coffee in hand, I would lead the way to the dining room. It was exactly three steps to the table, which always reminded me of our old table we had when I was growing up in the West Philadelphia projects. The table had character, I remember, with deep grooves worn into it through the years. She liked to cover our replica of that table with thick, fancy tablecloths, and I would peek under them from time to time to see that familiar form, standing firm. The island was on the north side of the room with the stereo perched precariously on top. There were two CD cases sitting on it at all times. I would always have to have them cockeyed because it seemed like something people like us would do. Sliding the top one out of its case, I would place it gently into the tray, watching it disappear from sight. Within moments, the sounds of Usher would fill the little house, another one of our rituals. He would be reminded of a girl that he once knew whilst we prepared and ate our pancake breakfast with fake bacon and fake sausage.

Sliding the top one out of its case, I would place it gently into the tray…

Someone would then go out to get the paper while the other took the dogs on a walk. I was never really a dog person, so I would generally procure the local Sunday paper. Sometimes I would walk, but most times I would drive my mint green Ford Probe to the corner store, which wasn’t on our corner, but was instead six corners down from us. Usually, I would return first, to the sounds of Usher trying to teach listeners how to do a dance called the U-Turn. Then,she would get back with the dogs, her face flushed from the walk, a vision in sweats. I would always greet her at the door, surviving the onslaught from the dogs, who inevitably thought I was there for them instead. The nice, leisure morning would continue with us poring over the different sections of the paper. I would focus on whatever sporting action had taken place, and she would have scissors in hand, attacking the coupons from the store ads.

Sunday mornings used to be ours, but as I sit here now typing these words on the screen I can hear the sounds of the Fresh Beat Band in the background, a cat keeps staring at me from its place at the window, and my littlest one just jumped on my lap, making it hard for me to type. And I wouldn’t trade this in for anything.

Sam