On Sunday mornings when I was small, I’d wake to the soft sound of my father’s footsteps easing toward the back door.
I’d throw off my covers and shiver into my clothes, listening as he opened the car door and started the engine.
I’d race down the back stairs and out to the car, hoping he wouldn’t drive away before I got there.
I’m pretty sure he always waited for me.
He’d drive and we were quiet in that early morning easy family sort of way.
We’d wander the stalls at the Farmer’s market, always making a stop to buy 4 sausage links from Mrs. Crawford.
Then we’d go to the neighborhood bakery for glazed doughnuts, still warm from the oven.
When we got home he’d cook the sausage and some eggs or pancakes, and we’d dress for church.
On Sunday mornings when I was older, I’d sleep late- missing trips to the farmer’s market but making it to church.
On Sunday mornings when I was grown, I’d wake early to go swim a mile at the YMCA before the lanes were too crowded. I’d meet friends for brunch and we’d linger over coffee and the New York Times.
On Sunday mornings when I became a mother, I’d wake when I heard my children stirring, sometimes wishing for a little more sleep. We’d make coffee, feed and dress the girls and head to church, promising chocolate glazed doughnuts after the service.
On Sunday mornings when I went back to work, I cherished unscheduled time. No soccer games, no school, just pajama, hot breakfast quiet family time.
This Sunday morning I woke early and packed the car with another load to move to my new house. Friends helped and we shared warm coffee and lots of laughs.
Next Sunday morning I hope to be sitting here.