But on Sunday

Make a second cup

My hands have been at the end of a shovel, in the garden. Or at the end of a pencil at my desk. Or tap-tapping letters across a screen. Or washing fresh greens for a salad. Or making a cup of tea. Or hanging sheets to dry on the line. Or turning the pages of a book. Or sorting seed packets. Or clipping branches frothy with apple blossoms. Or branches laden with lilac blooms. Or petting a sweet, sweet dog.

It’s the season when life runs wide open. Now is when we all dive in. Day breaks early, and we’re up when it does. Farm equipment travels back and forth along the road, cows and calves are moved to summer pasture, the mallard pair on the creek are enamored in a long honeymoon. Oily-headed grackles steal seeds from the bird feeder and Maggie Mae swims in the swollen creek.

But on Sunday, we pause. Breathe deeply. Make a second cup of coffee and tea. Sit end-to-end on the sofa under the same afghan (couch-time, we call it), with no plan but to let the day unwind. Stir up a batch of biscuits. Snip chives over soft-scrambled eggs. Read books while brothy beans simmer on the stove’s back burner. Let the eyelids slide into an afternoon nap, windows open, spring breeze wandering in. When thunder breaks and lightning flashes, when the evening rain comes, light the candles and ladle tender beans and hunks of Easter ham into wide-mouthed bowls, with torn French baguette along side.