Sunday Morning...

...said I'm gonna love you forever, forever and ever amen...as long as old men sit and talk about the weather, as long as old women sit and talk about old men...

The twang of Randy Travis's voice square-danced itself up the stairs to light on my teenage ears, rousing me from sleep. Senses awakened by breakfast, sizzling and dancing in the pan. It was Sunday. The kind of morning that eased its way into every warm place. Blew its breath on a whisper and raised the hair on your neck. Made you pull  the covers to your nose and see the world, ever so slightly, from beneath the down of the comforter. I would wait for...

My mother's laughter to eventually beat the music to the punch and I would drape my gangly body over the side of the bed. Slipping on my glasses, the world became clearer and Sunday's kitchen was my destination. My parents were a mess of flannel robes and bedhead. Country radio blared. Sunday funnies littered the floor. My father, seeing me, would put his arms out and we would dance. Martina McBride, George Strait, Alan Jackson. All of our favorites showed up this morning. I was too cool for this treacly show, but, no one else was here to see, so...just this once. One more time. I would dance and be...gloriously uncool.

I loved Sunday. Still do. On the rare occasion that I rise before Pink and Tink, I drag my own bleary-eyed bedraggled bedhead from the security of bed and head to the kitchen. Country radio on and butter sizzling. Crack the eggs and sing, waiting for my own little ladies to join me. Today it's Lady Antebellum....Hello world, how ya been....good to see you my old friend. Sometimes I feel...cold as steel...broken like I'm never gonna heal.

Tiny giggles pierce through my Sugarland sonata and I know it's time. Making their way down the stairs, Pink and Tink are all nightgowns and smiles. We sit on the kitchen floor, each taking a turn in my lap for a few morning kisses and how ya doins and did you sleep wells... I inspect them closely. Was nighttime kind? Are they still my babies? They are. Brought back to me on Sunday.

Pink puts her face close to mine and sings...Lover, lover, lover...you don't treat me no good no more...

And we laugh out loud...gloriously uncool...