Kathryn Nicolai

A month of Sundays meant enough weeks for 30 or even 31 Sundays to pass.

I think I'd nodded and gone away still pretty confused and a bit disappointed.

confused that anyone would pick that way to say a long time, and disappointed that there wasn't, waiting for me, a whole month when every day would be a Sunday.

As a grown-up, I can't say that I've ever been able to

It was just Sunday yesterday?

I didn't care.

I'd spent the previous weekend setting up the furniture out here, wiping down the slats in the swing and chairs, sweeping out the corners and plumping up the cushions and pillows.

after letting them freshen in the sunshine for a few hours.

It was all about getting settled first, then reaching for your cup from the side table, and not trying to swing too vigorously until half of it was gone.

The school bus passed as I sipped.

They only had another week or so of school.

before they let out for the summer.

The bus driver waved at me, and I could see in her face that she was counting down the days as much as the kids were.

I always appreciate coming back to a maid bed, so most days I at least straighten the blankets.

But since it was a Sunday,

Then each pillow got shaken out, flipped, and shaken again.

It was something my mom always did when she helped me make my bed when I was little.

Next Sunday activity.

I wanted to bake something.

In the kitchen, I thumbed through cookbooks and the handwritten cards in my recipe box.