I am awake writing as they sleep with the kind of peace only a long Sunday at home brings. My husband and my daughter look so alike; in the morning they rise with disheveled hair, matted down in the places that have collapsed on a pillow all night, and yet other strands still stand sprightly, half-curls signs of the ecstatic and beautiful day to come.
We will eat oatmeal and cinnamon, drink tea, and linger this morning — one of the last mornings in what is left of August. Soon enough September will arrive, and then as autumn creeps in we will embrace the change of season. Now, though, I hear my cherished two reading quietly in bed, and find myself unable to resist some more time with them before breakfast.
Have a wonderful day!