One Sunday Morning

Sunday morning.

I wake up late, lace up, and hit the bricks. Temps are in the 30s. I come in from my run, a cold and quick 5K.

The house is warm, quiet, and decked out thick in autumnal decoration. Old jazz standards seep out from a vintage radio in the dining room.

A breakfast plate waits for me on the counter, eggs and pancakes under steamy cellophane. Coffee’s on. Kids are reading. Kumi is up and about the house, making all things great in it.

Now nourished, I find time to write – and I do as I sip this bold cup of coffee with a splash of half and half. Sunlight streams to the den through dancing foliage and spills across the hardwood floor.

It’s here that I realize I have nothing to offer today but gratitude – and an honest prayer wishing all men everywhere my kind of Sunday morning.

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