Sunday is the last day. The one I wait for.
The day that starts a little later, and a little slower.
The day that waits for me noiselessly, and patiently, to do all the other things
that need doing on all the other days.

Sunday is the day that sits bedside, until I crawl out from under the covers
because I am ready, and not because I have to, until I walk on the warm wood floor
to the kitchen, bright, white, with window open slightly to let the outside in a little
while I make my Sunday coffee in the press my mother gave me
and wonder whether to have waffles, toast with marmalade, or nothing just yet.

Sunday sinks with me onto the soft brown couch, bare feet on carpet.
He is on one end, and my laptop is comfortably on my knees,
and I click the keys lazily, browsing and/or writing while Guaraldi plays,
or Coltrane, or Holiday, or maybe some old soul.

Sunday stretches out with me, on the floor, with the pen and word jumble,
sharing a patch of sun with the little white dog
(that reclines in such a peaceful way that tells me that Sunday is the day
he has been waiting for, too).

Sunday lets me be. Contemplating. Relaxing. But won;t let me think to far ahead.
It allows me to slow, and to reward myself, and to gather breath
for the long walk through the days of next week... Monday, Tuesday,
and each day after, until next Sunday comes.

Sunday inspires me. It let's me be in my own head, and tells me to listen to myself.
It confims to me that everything I have here on this day, is really all that I need.


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