Late spring in Northeast Iowa was always mild, but this day seemed better for some reason. At six thirty it was already fifty-five degrees. I looked out my window at the soft swaying of the lilac tree planted in the yard. I admired the way the dust filtered slowly through the sunlight and settled softly on the floor. Its warm light teased me out of bed and I reluctantly stood up.
I wobbled down the stairs, still half asleep. I turned the corner and peeked in to my mom’s room. Silence. I could tell the rest of the house was still asleep too. I crept back toward the kitchen, and grimaced at the way my feet stuck to the linoleum. Gross. Looking around, I could tell that cleaning up this would be on a list of today’s chores. I stepped over a dirty pot and skirted a puddle of what looked like coffee, finally making it to the solid wood door. Cringing as it squeaked open, I silently slipped outside.
I shivered as I took my first on to the patio, realizing it was a bit chillier than I first thought. I stepped off the small square of concrete and flexed my toes in the soft grass that was always a little too tall. The remnants of hay bales from the night before seemed to enjoy jabbing my feet, but I ignored them and slowly made my way to the edge of our property. On the hill.
The hill was the tallest in the county (Which wasn’t that tall because Iowa is a very flat place) and looked out across the entire cedar valley. (Strangely, there are no cedars in the valley. It’s not even really a valley, just a little pocket in the endless flatness of the place) Sunsets were good, but sunrises were spectacular. Deciding the lone stretch of fence wasn’t comfortable enough, I slid down and settled in to place beside the huge oak trees growing side by side; it looked like the perfect place for a hammock. I looked out across the not so green grass of our pasture, at the horses, contentedly grazing even so early in the morning; at the old barn, its peeling paint seemed to be the only thing still holding it together, yet remarkably it was still standing; seeing the sad attempt at what used to be a sandbox, now scattered across the yard; seeing the run down wind vane feebly trying vane in the wind, fighting against decades of rust. Seeing all this, but not really taking any of it in, because it was six thirty on a Sunday morning, and nothing mattered. Six thirty on a Sunday where a minute could be an hour could be a day. Six thirty on a Sunday where it didn’t matter that I had some project due the next day, and it didn’t matter that I hadn’t even started on it. Six thirty on a Sunday morning where I could just sit and be sitting there. And that’s why I believe in Sunday mornings. Sunday mornings where you can sit in the grass and only have to worry about that ant that’s crawling on your foot or that fly that’s getting a little to close.
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