I can see it so perfectly in my mind. Heat waves rising lazily up from the patio, sunshine so bright it made your eyes water, birds twittering, light breezes, the smell of flowers and pine in the air, and little tastes of sweet and tart plums and muscadines that made your mouth pucker and your tummy tremble with the pure joy of it all.
Those were the Sundays of my youth. Sundays, I spent as a child, going to Church, dinner at Granny's, sweet tea, old reruns of Laurel and Hardy and reading the comics. Naps, running in the sunshine, banana pudding, roast and Daddy Long Legs.
Yes, my memories are probably rose-colored. I'm sure not EVERY Sunday was a prefect, bright sun-filled day with puffy white clouds. I'm sure not EVERY Sunday had the perfect meal and all my favorite foods. I'm sure Granny didn't make dessert EVERY Sunday. But in my memory, it's all perfect. There were no skinned knees, no rainy days, no storms, no hurt feelings, no brussel sprouts--nothing but perfection.
Sure, there may have been a worm or two in the plums, but that just made it even more perfect. Sure, my cousins may have been pig-headed over letting a girl hang out at the "Big Rock", but it was still perfect.
And tomorrow is Sunday. As Josh, Reagan and I rush around, running errands, writing papers, getting in and out of Church, eating, changing diapers, cleaning, naps--it makes me long for the perfect Southern Sundays of my Youth and hope that someday, Reagan will look back on her childhood and see everything through rose-colored glasses and smile.