Sunday Afternoon

The sky, on Sunday afternoons in June, has a unique quality like no other afternoon in the year. They paused for a moment to appreciate it; each knowing what the other was thinking -neither spoke.

They were slow and lazy as they walked toward the house, the grass tickling their bare feet. The sun was warm on their shining heads. Their bare arms already nut brown. After church, they had shed themselves of highly polished shoes and sanctimonious attitudes and grabbed their fishing poles.

There was pure happiness in sitting by the stream. The fish were safe as they chattered and laughed. They didn’t care. It wasn’t really about the fishing; it was about being together. It was about being outside. It was about not having chores. Their eyes sparkled as they planned their summer. There was a fort to build in the woods. They planned to sleep under the stars as often as Mom would allow.

They followed their noses home. The aroma of fried chicken and the sound of soft laughter coaxed them from the yard. There would be an early supper and then the rest of this long, soft afternoon before it faded into the violet quiet of Sunday evening.