12/8/24

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Without a doubt, my favorite morning of the week is Sunday. Partly because my Sunday morning is almost always Sunday afternoon, and I relish the chance to sleep in, to not wake up until my eyes open of their own accord, rather than being slammed open by an alarm. Sunday morning is spent by first luxuriously stretching, then pulling on a pair of raggedy old pajamas and padding downstairs. A good strong hot cup of coffee is waiting for me (whoever invented the coffeepot with a programmable timer is a saint!), and so are a couple of doughnuts, purchased on Saturday from one of a selection of bakeries. The Sunday paper is waiting for me too. If we are in the cold months, I turn on the fireplace and grab a fuzzy blanket; if not, I open the windows. Then I settle into my recliner, coffee on one side, doughnuts on the other, Sunday newspaper in my lap, and I sigh deep and proceed to enjoy myself.

It’s different, of course, now. Michael used to be to my right. We have a reclining loveseat, and he was always on the right, and I was on the left.

Michael’s favorite advice columnist was Carolyn Hax, who appears in our paper on Sunday mornings, so I always read the column out loud to him, and then we’d discuss it. Carolyn Hax doesn’t suffer any fools, and we both enjoyed her tell-it-like-it-is attitude and acerbic sense of humor.

This morning started by my eyes opening, not on their own accord, but because Cleocatra decided that my orchid really didn’t belong on my windowsill. My window is about a foot away from my side of the bed. The clonk of the pot and the plant’s scream for help, along with the skitter as Cleo did her cartoon cat run-in-one-place before taking off had me sitting up and then out of bed in about three seconds.

The plant survived. The cat…well, we’ll see.

Once my heart returned to normal, I settled into my usual routine. Pajamas on, down the stairs, coffee and doughnuts served, fireplace on, even though it was close to 50 degrees outside, and then I parked myself in my recliner. It only took about five minutes for Cleo to tuck herself under my chin, asking for forgiveness, which I grudgingly gave. Oliver, sleek orange tabby, especially compared to fuzzball orange chonk Cleo, settled on the arm of my recliner. Ursula, 60 pounds too heavy to be a lapdog, stretched herself out on the floor.

And of course, Michael’s recliner remained empty.

I read my way through the comics. Then I moved into the Life section, which is where Carolyn Hax lives. I first read the Bestselling Books list and the calendar which shows which authors are visiting the area this week. I read about an upcoming one-man performance of Dickens A Christmas Carol, performed by an autistic actor, and I wondered why it was important to mention that the actor was autistic. If he wasn’t, would the article have said it was performed by a neurotypical actor? And then I moved my way to Carolyn Hax.

I glanced up at Michael’s urn, sitting on the top of my piano across the room. I started to read the columm, but then I glanced up at the urn again.

Setting my coffee down, taking a moment to pat two orange heads, I studied the urn. I looked again at the empty recliner to my right. And then I read Carolyn Hax out loud.

It was the first time my Sunday morning-in-the-afternoon felt complete in almost six months. Even without the discussion. Because I know what Michael would have said, and I know what I would have answered. Twenty-five years of marriage make that happen.

Earlier, I’d told my son that Michael and I, and now I, spend $43 a month to receive the Wednesday paper, which I never read, but it’s included in the subscription, and the Sunday paper. And I just typically read three sections: the comics, the Life section, and the Business section to see what homes sold in my area this week.

Forty-three dollars.

While talking with my son, I wondered out loud why in the world I spent so much for so little.

But now I know it’s worth it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.