Sunday Morning

I walk across town, a sunny June Sunday morning. Fresh croissants and strawberry smoothie in my bag. I pass a women on her way to church, we exchange morning greetings. I’m heading to eat breakfast with my family. My life is a novel, a poem, a collection of short stories. Every moment, I want to stop, take note, record.

Choral music plays from a window. Bells chime, birds sing, a child laughs. A dog sniffs at my feet, I smile at the owner.

I like living in a place where strangers say hello when they cross in the street or when walking their dogs. I like living in a place filled with green spaces, flowing rivers, old houses, open gardens. I like living in a place where my immediate family is within easy distance. I like living a life that is intertwined with family and friends, where encounters aren’t always planned to last a whole day, but can be spontaneously arranged upon suggestion. Where ‘meeting up’ is just popping in for a cup of coffee on the way to somewhere else, that then turns into full breakfast with siblings all there. I like it like that. We cook and eat and drink together. We chat and laugh about the night before. We gather round and swipe through photos. We spend an hour or so with each other, before going onwards with the rest of our day, separately.

Moments like these are the ones to remember. A simple Sunday morning with family. I want to stop, take note, record, and so that is what I have done.