Sunday Morning

I'm sitting still in my cool-from-the-air-conditioner front room. I have removed all the curtains for a quick trip to the dry cleaner, a task amongst many tasks I complete twice a year. Fall cleaning, if you will. The windows in this old house are tall and wide and low, giving me a very clear view of my front yard. The sky is a pale flat chrome color, the individuality of the clouds impossible to discern. Where the ground is normally dirt instead of grass, I can tell it is wet but not yet mud. The pampas grass in front of my window glistens with beads of moisture that have been silently wetting everything in the yard for about an hour. We won't be entertaining a gullywasher today; this will be a constant misting. The temperature outside doesn't necessarily warrant the air conditioner, but unfortunately, the humidity does. I don't care for my bed linens sticking to me.
In front of me, between the clicking clacking ringed fingers sits my steaming hot AOK steel-cut coffee mug containing a delightful sumatran blend from the best little coffee store in the world, Anderson's Coffee. With a little bit of non-fat creamer and Splenda. I might intellectually be a traditionalist, but my waist prefers the accommodations I am making towards its reduction.
In the front room, Hootie delights in watching a prerecorded episode of Babar, as she adores elephants. We were too busy up and out and doing yesterday, for her to watch it then. This is a treat. The husband lounges on the bed in the middle room, the boudoir, devouring and absorbing his weekend treat - stacks of the former week's Wall Street Journal. Somewhere in the kitchen a small container of scones beckons for me, but my stomach isn't yet ready. In a minute. I'm typing.
It will be a good morning, as all Sunday mornings are. With my child, my husband, my cozy house, and my elixir of life steaming mug in front of me. I am contented.