Sunday Mornings

 

A quiet Sunday morning the sound of bacon sizzling, her soft voice humming a memory of days past. As I lay awake in our bed the cool autumn air coming through the window comforts me as I remember the countless Sunday mornings spent in this house. Waking up to a baby’s cry, her telling me it was my turn. Holding that small miracle until she fell back to sleep, I stayed with her until the sun came up and the long day began. It’s been said a quiet house is not a happy house I can tell you our house was happy. Three girls screaming, dancing, playing, hiding, and each trying to out-talk the other.

Three proms, three weddings, and six grandchildren all from within the walls of this house. Painted walls and replaced carpets. New plumbing, new roof, and young saplings that have become tall trees. Car washes and lemonade stands snowball fights and jumping into piles of raked leaves. Carved pumpkins and Christmas lights. Countless Halloween costumes and mom made costumes for school plays, talent competitions, and pageants. I can’t count the trips to schools and basketball games, soccer, and tennis they were all athletic. Easter baskets and egg hunts. Picking out the best Christmas tree that became a history book of home-made decorations.

Late night conversations when a curfew was broken and lady talk in whispers behind closed doors. First boyfriends and broken hearts. Tears and hugs happiness and sorrows all within the walls of this old house. Sunday mornings when I waited to be called to breakfast, a feast prepared by my four girls all talking at once as the batter was whipped and coffee perked. The smell of bacon sizzling and the feel of tears flowing down my face as I remember all the memories that made this house a home. She smiled at me as I entered the kitchen wiping the tears from my face. She didn’t need to speak as her own tears had dried and we ate in silence.

Mike