When I Was Young on Sunday Morning

The house is quiet.

He comes downstairs and grabs a Tupperware container full of leftovers from the refrigerator. He plops down on the couch. In between mouthfuls, he shares small tidbits of his day. Baseball practice, the latest high school drama, the upcoming prom.

My 18-year old son Charlie.

My eyes are tired. I am ready for bed. Yet I stay just a little while longer, knowing that in six months this spot on the couch will be empty. 

I lean into his chatter. In the lamplight, I see the curve of his face. I think about childhood – how fleeting it all is. What do they remember? What will this dark-haired boy of mine take from it, as he moves from home to college?

He sits up on the couch, the Tupperware empty beside him. He mentions an essay he wrote for school – something like a poem. He pulls it up on his phone. He begins to read.

Listening to his words, I realize. They take exactly what they need.

When I was young on Sunday Morning, I’d wake to the sound of movement. 

My siblings making noise, my dad telling them to put their shoes on. I’d rush to get dressed and off we went. It was Sunday, so dad put on classical music which always made me want to fall asleep. 

When I was young on Sunday morning, we’d arrive at Grandma’s. My youngest brother Henry would push his way to be first through the door. Grandpa would greet us with a smile, hug and a kiss. He was always happy to see us. 

When I was young on Sunday morning, Grandma’s house smelled of sausages and syrup, like it did every time she made us pancakes. I never got tired of them. 

When I was young on Sunday Morning, we’d sit and talk for hours about school, sports, and old stories of when my dad was little. 

When I was young on Sunday Morning, we did the same thing every week. But now I’m older, grandpa’s hugs aren’t the same, his smile slowly fading without her here. The house does not smell like pancakes.

Sunday is not the same.