Sunday morning

Have you ever spent a Sunday morning choosing where you’d like to spend the morning? Those of us lucky enough to have a home of several rooms could make that choice.

Sunday morning, you could stay in bed, settle in your favorite chair, or, like me, go someplace I usually don’t go.

The living room!

So the title of this post ought to be, “Spending Sunday where I usually don’t go.”

I have a beautiful living room. It is festooned with art and plants, comfortable chairs, big windows with the morning sun, appropriate decorations, and a modern looking sofa with fluffy pillows coordinated to amplify a sub-dominant tint splashing the room with color. Yellow and the sun vie for splendor.

I spent a lingering morning there on Sunday, and it was glorious. Memories flowed from every vibrant point in the room. The corner where a Christmas Tree once stood. I’m sure I heard the laughter of grand-kids. A papaya covered etagere; each shelf holds artifacts of a long-ago travel memory. A curving sofa gave up echoes of told stories, uproarious laughter and the sent of a friend or two who had no place to stay or just couldn’t make it home after a little too much of too much.

There was music too; hidden on the shelves behind a rising electric mirror of a black lacquer console. Symphonies, songs, and ballads that evoked a dance, a duet, a touch or a kiss.

I must spend more time in the living room.

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