The eggs are in the icebox. They are cold and lacking color. The baskets are packed with rubbish and slowly overflowing. There are no candies, big or small, nor gifts of season’s folly. There are no heads in little beds and no bent to catch the morning. I have nothing to hide, and there is no one to hide it from.
If the boys were home the house would be loud and full of bustle, but they are not and only the sound of jazz makes its way up along the stairs. Only echoes bounce back down them.
I stood in the kitchen with coffee on my tongue and banana bread in my stomach. The paper would be in the drive and there was plenty of work to be done, but motivation and Sundays are not made to mix, so I let them dance their separate sways, two-steps and soft-shoes, breakfast with a show. I grew full on fruit and lonely, and wound up writing here.
The sunlight stirred a fly to buzzing. It has grown louder ever since.