Sunday Morning Rituals
Last night I slept upstairs, son the younger on the trundle bed. Under the roof, we could hear the rain better.
I had on my favorite pj’s: pink flannel with coffee cups splashed all over. When I woke, the dog was at my feet and the cat had her head on son the younger’s leg. It had stormed during the night; as it got light the downpour lessened.
I got up and put on my favorite robe: pink terrycloth scattered with poodles, Eiffel Towers, and “je t’aime” in black embroidery thread.
I made my traditional Sunday morning run to the neighborhood donut shop, where the radio is always tuned to a local blues show. Last week, when I got back into my car, I found myself listening to the same program and the host mentioned the donut shop owner by name. This morning as I wait for my regular order, I watch the parade. It is quiet today. None of the church-goers have arrived yet. Instead, there are two young men in tatoos, t shirts and khakis.
At home, I eat my coconut donut and watch the ending to “Flower Drum Song.” Later today I will watch Bing Crosby in “The Bells of Saint Mary.”
Outside, there are circles of fresh dirt around each of the two lilac bushes planted yesterday. The ditches are full of water and the trees still drip, but patches of blue are appearing in the sky.
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