Church on Sunday

Sleepy fumbling fooling around before the kids wake up, then another slow snoozing doze. Interrupted by compact bodies bouncing and tickling and squishing and gimme the blankets, smell of little-boy sweat and gleam of little-girl nail polish. Sausages and eggs, toast and coffee and juice. Growl of the mower and heft of its weight, jungle grass gives way before the blades, becoming lawn again. Sweat and green clippings; birds startle from the feeder. Baseball's white curve under the apple branches, slaps round perfection into the mitt. Pink watermelon with black polka-dot seeds, ice tapping gently in plastic cups of lemonade. Patting out pink rounds of hamburger, squishy splaying between palms, salt and pepper and garlic powder in the marbled discs between translucent parchment. Potatoes boiling, steam blurring the kitchen window, angling sun sliding softly across the emerald sprawl. Peeling hot potatoes, quick movements, wincing, rueful laughter. Vinegar and parsley. Outside, wood splitting, splinters flying, sweat springing to his shoulders, the axe clocking with pendulum regularity. The match, the leap of flame, the fire dancing. The sizzle of the meat. Witches' cauldron burbling of corn in the kettle. Hands clasped around the table: grace. Pickles and "wow, Mom!" and glasses of rosé. Breeze through the screen door. Baths and backpacks and lunchboxes, PJs, books. Tucking, kisses, little arms tight around the neck; unentwining, more kisses. A softbound anthology in twilight, an amber post-prandial, last whirr of the hummingbird, wispy flames flicker and fade. The dog's nose snuffling softly in the bottom of his bowl. Snick of the deadbolt, slider glides shut. Check for sweet sleepy breaths in the hall light. Slide between sheets, recline holding hands, daylight still glowing from the edge of the sky. Bells sound in the distance, but we've been doing our devotions all day.