There is something about Sunday that justifies the rest of the week. It’s like a reconciliation of emotion, a washing away of frustrations.

Sundays soften slights, and things that ran so deep and urgent on Monday become whispers on the last day of the week. There are no regrets on a Sunday; no mess-ups or wrinkles.

Sundays are the end, the exhale before we gear up to begin again.

I’ve always loved Sunday. They used to mean last-minute homework and preparing to battle a new week of insecurities and high school. As I got older, they morphed into movie days and laundry.

Out in the adult world, Sunday was a courage reset for my insane job, and then they changed again with watermelon, big sandwiches, and hanging wet bathing suits to dry. Sundays back then were a chance to get my kids sorted, last minute homework and papers signed for their own school adventures.

Sunday is quieter now and still my favorite day of the week. I wash sheets on Sundays, read, blog, and drink too much tea. Some Sundays, I stay in my pajamas all day; others demand a mowed lawn before a new week.

Whatever season of Sunday we are in, it’s special. They give us pause to do nothing, learn, or just catch up.

If we’re lucky, life is long. We need Sundays.

My thoughts from the laundry room. Slumber.

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