Sunday mornings are for ritualizing the mundane.

Listening to geese.

Watching blue turn gold.

Saturdays are usually active. There’s groceries, and some laundry, shopping, and – in normal times – concerts or movies or dinner out. The fullness of Saturday spills into my Sunday morning in the form of carelessly discarded jackets, shoes, wine glasses; remnants and reminders of Saturday revelry that now, under the slowly rising sun, have overstayed their welcome.

But I don’t hurriedly gather it all and toss them back where they belong.

Because Sunday mornings are slow.

I file a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. While it slowly simmers, I wash the wine glasses and load the dishwasher with plates from midnight snacks. I feed my kitties (who have no concept of slow when it comes to breakfast.)

I keep the lights dim and methodically slice a fresh lemon. I choose a mug from the cupboard. Who am I today? World’s Best Sister? Yankees fan? Disney princess?

I add the lemon and the now-bubbling water. I toss the spent lemon rinds into the disposal for later.

I sit listening to my neighborhood awaken, sip my water, and write.