Sunday Morning Just Past

Sunday morning came. White snow lies sleeping outside. Cold air has finally come.  Years and years of living with this season of cold and it is still hard to find a way to approach it. Snow seems to have overtaken the world as I look out at it through my bay window. Better brew some coffee.

Sunday morning on this occasion is a midpoint in the weekend.  Yes, a long weekend is upon me and all the usual frenzy of Sundays can be stretched out over the daylight hours and even into Monday morning.  Maybe this will be a day for sledding on the hill, or shooting pucks at a brick wall in addition to the normal mundane tasks.

Pour the water, grind the beans (today I through in some flakes off a cinnamon stick), hit the orange button and the gurgling sounds begin.  Standing barefoot in my kitchen I feel the cold creep under the door to the breezeway.  Someone must have taken recycling out to the garage yesterday and the draft doggie is not in place.  With my toes I push the long pliable fuzzy fabric cylinder decorated with pine trees and moose back into place.  The cold current slows. I turn to another task but soon the coffee is smelling strong and is enticing me to pour a cup. Cream yes, sugar no.

My hope is that someone else will cook breakfast.  There is movement around in the house.  Taking all the socks I folded last night upstairs I see my wife is checking Facebook.  Primus is rumbling about in his room looking for clothes.  I put the socks in a drawer. 

I pause and look out the window. The sun is bright but the air is cold.  I can tell these facts to be true because there is no water dripping off roofs, angles of shingles that are already heating from the sun.  I can tell this because there is absolutely no activity at all to be discerned on the street.  If it were even a little warmer somebody would be out and emptying a waste bin into the garbage can at the edge of the garage. Somebody else would be walking the far too large dog for this neighborhood.  The dog walker would be dressed in some ungodly shade of spandex.

My wife must have taken up the cooking I smell bacon, our once only weekly treat.  I smell something else too.  It might be pancakes or waffles but there is definitely a third note to the mix of coffee and squealer delight.  I had best go get the rest of the folded t-shirts into peoples' drawers now and head downstairs now.