I love Sundays. The slowed-down pace, coffee in bed, the comfort of flannel worn well after noon, sometimes into Monday….

I love Sundays. The warmth of the furnace at my ankles as I type at the keyboard, unwashed, disheveled, un-fed, and unkempt.

I love Sundays. Phone calls come only from friends ~no business, no bill collectors.

I love Sundays. What’s on the menu? Shall I cook Chicken or Meatloaf? Nope, I’ll have cereal instead.

I love Sundays, and chose to not go outside, to not go to work, not for some religious preference, just because it’s “Sunday” and I want to relish the day, love it and adore it and worship it as being my day to be, to hang, to do as I choose, Life not knocking and ringing, calling and demanding my attention, demanding me at every turn.

I love Sundays as I watch the Sunday morning program, staying warm amidst twisted blankets far after I have awoken.

I love Sundays as I notice my shoulders have dropped, soak in steamy oiled waters, rub lotions and potions on my body, and spray fragrance into each room.

I love Sundays as I pamper my laundry, a load at a time. As I wander around and see with fresh eyes.

I love Sundays. I shall certainly die on a Sunday. Comfortably me in my own skin, as on no other day of the week.

I Love Sundays.