Sundays are my pyjama days. They feel like a big fluffy blanket that soothes away my cares and warms my tired heart. They are lazy, cake-in-the-afternoon kind of days, and here at home the only things missing are a green landscape and a hammock gently swaying in the breeze.
I have golden memories of Sundays past. My mother always cooked large, hearty breakfasts on Sundays. She would serve fried eggs, fried plantains with sour cream and re-fried beans, toasted French bread, ham, orange juice and a steaming cup of coffee with milk. They were slow, leisurely meals that felt like a treat at the end of the school week.
I remember my father sitting at the head of the table, with my two brothers on one side and my mother and I on the other. I know my mother always had the corner seat. It was easier to get up from there, as she always did, because in our house my mother served everyone. The tablecloth was beige, with thin, golden arches near the hem, and the chairs were heavy wooden ones, with dark blue velvet cushions.
I remember clearly the clatter of the silverware, and my mother’s voice telling me to stir the milk or the layer of cream that I found disgusting would form on the top. I remember the white, cottony center of the toasted bread that she always put aside for me. My mother likes the crust while I like the heart, and even today she will divide her bread so she can share it with me.
I hope many years from now, my daughter will remember me and think well of me. I sometimes worry that I think too much about the big picture, and don’t enjoy the small, daily things that matter most.
I once read in a book that the big moments in life happen between the bread and the butter. I must remember that, and be grateful for every whine of my daughter’s that tells me I am the one she wants, even when I feel drained and I’d rather walk away.