Letters and Diary Non-Fiction posted June 1, 2008

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To my husband Dave.

Sundays with you

by amada

Listening to the beats of my heart.
Sunday mornings, we leisurely merge into the slow lane.

This is the day when we tend our own vineyard and celebrate rituals of nothingness. Outside our window could be a harsh winter, but our tent is
a sun-splashed summer. The glory of one more easy Sunday at home, with

Lazily we stretch and disentangle from our sleep and begin our
Sunday's routine: Will Shortz' Sunday puzzle master on public radio. It
brings us riddles, word plays, and puzzles. We struggle to solve the
brainteasers as obsessive word-nerd fanatics, trying to decipher clues as if
they were as precious as elusive circling-in planets. We squabble and
ramble over riddles and silly assumptions of our cleverness. After a while,
with a grumpy laugh, we accept defeat; we give up the notion of matching
wits with the intellectual elite of puzzle geniuses. But next Sunday we will be ready to face defeat, once again.

And the minutes glide by;, inexorable, unstoppable, unforgiven throughout the precious hours of this blessed day.

From the kitchen, the impatient shriek of a tea kettle calls fiercely, and
the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls bring us back to the simple life. No fuss, no fancies, no hurry.

After a while we retreat to the living room where tired, worded out,
squeezed newspapers pages are silently scattered on the annoyed floor.

Our laptops converse with each other from opposite sides of the
window. Different sites; similar hearts; e-mailing a "Hi" just for fun.

Daughter is cocooned on the weary couch, wrapped in a multicolor blanket, surrended by a multitude of books.

One cat languidly roasts in front of the glowing fireplace.

The stereo plays one of our favorite CDs, John Williams's Greatest Hits

1969-1999. At times we even dare to mumble-gumble a song.

My world is barely contained by the caressing walls and the festive
clutter in this room. You are at the center of it all, making everything brighter, and healthier, and lovelier.

Razor-thin minutes continue marching unkindly. The lovely day, unforgiving, sways away in spite of my wishes to bring it to a standstill and make eternal this moment of now.

In the midst of all, I retreat to give thanks. We built a home with steel foundations in spite of our feeble feet of clay-both of us survivors of the slings and arrows of previous marriages.

We merrily pink twirl in our second dance, the beginning of our now ten-year-old uncommon tale.

Our circle is complete as we cling to each other in this day of nothingness and fullness.

Down the hall a telephone rings.

Almost Paradise.

Sundays with you.


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