What’s in my pocket?
Well, nothing.
It’s Sunday.
Sunday is for early morning walks and quiet moments feeling the rising sun on your back, sweat sticking to your body, the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears, your breathing quick and heavy and louder as the ground rises. And it’s for empty pockets.
Sunday is for homemade granola with natural yoghurt and honey; for slabs of sourdough caked in butter. It’s for cups of tea you hold close to your face, feeling the steam wrapping itself around your mouth and nose and tickling your ears. And it’s for empty pockets.
Sunday is for laying in the shade, the damp grass rustling beneath you, your head resting on cushions that don’t really belong outside. It’s for laying out, head in a book, noticing the shade shift as the pages turn and the sun warms you. And it’s for empty pockets.
Sunday is for dinners around the kitchen table, it’s for smiling conversations and laughter with people you call family. It’s for tall glasses of cold water and shaking salt on your vegetables. And it’s for empty pockets.
Sunday is for early nights under clean sheets. It’s for breathing in the summer air through your open window and pulling your blankets to your chin, better to be swathed in blankets than close the window. And it’s for empty pockets.
Sunday is for nowhere to be but here. Sunday is for enjoying the moments that you otherwise ignore or pretend you don’t have time for. Sunday is for nothing and for everything at once.
Sunday is for empty pockets.
kb xx