Sleep clouded my brain this early this morning as I tried to decipher the smell wafting its way into my bedroom. The sun was also trying to disturb my peaceful sleep. As hard as I tried to close out the scents invading my privacy, there was no denial the aroma of breakfast being prepared on the other end of the house.
I closed my eyes and allowed myself to escape back almost sixty years, to a different Sunday morning. Remembering what it was like to wake in my bed to the smells of breakfast being prepared was as sweet as any other memory of my childhood. Daddy’s coffee brewing mixed with the smell of bacon frying. The excitement of knowing daddy was making pancakes for breakfast. I could faintly hear him whistling. Daddy couldn’t carry a tune to save his life when it came to singing, but he had a real talent for whistling. Something you don’t hear much these days, a talent lost to modern technology. The memory of how daddy would always smile as I rounded the corner, making my way into the small kitchen. Sometimes he would make me a special cup of coffee of mostly milk, that I would drink while I watched him finish frying the bacon. Patiently waiting for the pancakes to be set before me, I often wondered why he was so happy just making breakfast.
I finally threw back the sheet and quilt this morning, making my way down the hall and rounded the corner. I was greeted with a big smile from my husband as he was taking honey biscuits out of the oven. “I made you some biscuits for breakfast,” he smiled. I thanked him for the breakfast but I was really thanking him for the lovely memory. One that will never leave me. I can not even express how blessed I am to have such memories of a wonderful childhood. I loved those quiet moments I shared with my dad that seemed to only happen on Sunday mornings, mom’s morning to sleep in. The rest of the days we were busy with life, as most families were.
People are always asking if there was something you could change in your past, what would it be. I could probably give them a big list, but Sunday mornings would not be one of them. If I could share those mornings with the world I would. There would be happier people in the world, but that’s another story.