On a morning so cold we woke up while the sky still glowed with a new sun. It was Sunday morning early so the street outside the window was quiet, not even the buses passed by. We are passing through autumn attentive to the change in light. We know the secret of the cold and the dark, and secretly we love it.
But morning secrets shift to choosing what to bring for a morning at the local coffee shop where we meet our friends. There wasn’t a phone call made or an email sent, just a tacit agreement that this is where we are on Sunday mornings. We drink coffee and play with Alder, talk about the news and our lives and share good articles in the New York Times. There is some game playing and lots of paper airplane making, sometimes knitting, but most of all there is the continuity of showing up and spending time together every week.
Some day when we own our own home, with wood floors and a big kitchen we’ll have people over every Sunday. By then our friends won’t be working behind the counter and instead of croissants we’ll have crepes or eggs, and salad. Because I love nothing more than salad with a stingy vinaigrette with breakfast, except my be some steamed greens with the same dressing. In our someday house there is a porch big enough for everyone to sit at the table and to cook outside. I have lots of other thoughts about our someday house but those Sunday morning open houses are the thing I see most clearly. Someday you should come over, bring something to read and maybe some cheese.
Until then this is the rhythm of our Sundays: