Sunday Morning

It’s Sunday morning, I wake up and stumble out into the living room.

I’m six years old. Dad brushes my hair and I run out the back door.

It’s Sunday morning, I wake up and stumble out into the living room.

I’m 12 years old. I sit on the carpet and watch blues clue with my sister, she’s two.

It’s Sunday morning, I wake up and stumble out into the living room.

I’m 16 years old. I grab a doughnut off the stove and sit down on the love seat. We laugh.

It’s Sunday morning, I wake up and stumble out into the living room.

I’m 22 years old. I’m hungover and nobody else calls this place home.

It’s Sunday morning, I wake up and stumble out into the living room.

I’m 25 years old. I have a newborn in my arms. She’s beautiful,we moved back home. We aren’t alone.

It’s Sunday morning, I wake up and stumble out into the living room.

I’m 27 years old. Two beautiful little girls bop around, we sing nursery rhymes while their dad makes breakfast.

It’s Sunday morning, I wake up and stumble out into the living room.

I’m 30 years old. My feet hurt from yesterday’s 14-hour shift. I throw on my stethoscope, kiss tiny foreheads and head off for another one.

It’s Sunday morning, I wake up and stumble out into the living room.

I’m 32 years old. I’m not sure if the world is still turning. I lay back down.

It’s Sunday morning, I wake up and stumble out into the living room.

I’m 34 years old. That 2-year-old is 24 now. She stumbles out with a newborn in her arms. Two pretty little girls are on their way home to me. I make coffee. The world is turning again.

Photo Credit: Sherisavino "Sunrise thru the winter trees"