A Normal Morning

Mom has always been a morning person. I’ll remember forever that big white robe she wore in the mornings when I was a kid. It showed her smallness, the bulky baggy thing that it was. I always knew the time to wake up was coming when I heard her shower shut off. The light from her room across the hall would drift into my bed and bring my sleepy eyes to open. It was a warm light, deep and orange with traces of steam coming from the open bathroom door. She’d slip on her robe. She wore it when she’d get me out of bed. She wore it while she read the Bible under a lamp on the couch. She wore it while she put on her makeup and blew her hair dry. She wore it while I stood next to her, borrowing her hairbrush and doing it like she did. She wore it while she made us breakfast.

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Saturday Showers

I hope that hand-made wreath graces your front door. Your first front door, where family and friends—who are are mostly family—will come through and sit around your table, propped on elbows and leaning closer to listen above the murmurs of the people you love all around  you and above your favorite song humming behind the gathering—a subtle ballad to bliss. I hope that skillet makes not-so-perfect pumpkin pancakes on a late and rainy Saturday morning and that those pancakes are the beginning of an agendaless day. Oh sweet friend, you’re radiant and lovely and full of that thing that makes him love you.

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