Sunday.

Yesterday was a slow afternoon. I got a slow start to cooking sunday dinner, which usually means it doesn't turn out as well. It was fine, though. Most nights we sit around our bar, but on Sundays we always eat at the table; a tradition I'm carrying on from my childhood. I won't let it go. I made chocolate chip cookies along with dinner. We talk, we laugh at the boys, we eat. And in the end, the kitchen's always a mess. Mr. Keller took the boys downstairs so I could clean in quiet. It's my favorite thing to do. I've loved to clean as long as I can remember. Kricket tells me I get it from her. It's thick as the blood in me. I turned on Sinatra on the tv radio and it played for the rest of the night, the fire humming the background. The boys eventually found their way upstairs, after everything was washed, dried, swept and put away. We ended the evening draped across each other on the bed while the boys rough-housed on the floor until bedtime. Oh, sunday nights. I love you.