#85 monday morning, you sure look fine.

Most people dread Mondays like the yearly dentist appointment and math homework on a Wednesday afternoon. I've heard that they're unpopular. For sometime now, however, Mondays have my own personal, weekly, very quiet holiday. Even my beloved Sunday has momentarily slipped into a sad second when I think of my Mondays. While everybody else suits up and takes to the highways, the bus stops, the corner coffee shops for their first shot of the day, I'm only just slinking out of bed mindful to walk those twelve steps to the bathroom at meandering pace, making sure to crawl back into bed a few times before I commit to the journey. Only because I can. And because it feels so good. On Mondays, our apartment's sun soaked, cement porch that sprawls a good portion of the front lawn is all mine. All those new, bright white lawn chairs too. I can have my pick. A rickety old metal table teeters under the weight of my hopeful stack of books and unwritten notes. My keys, my coffee, a few pencils and my ever faithful v5 precision point pen rest on it's chipped, sun scorched surface available at my every whim. And the sun. That sun. Of all the things I would ask be at my beck and call, it would be the morning sun at ten o'clock on a cloudless spring day.  And it is. Beyond all of Thursday's wildest hopes and dreams, the sun holds still in it's spot concentrating all of it's soul soothing rays straight into each shadow locked inch of me. And for a few short hours I am free. Utterly and incomparably. For a few hours, all relationships will mend and perhaps resume their old ease, forgiveness will be given and --what's more -- received, fear loosens it's grip on my shoulders, the corners of my lips and the sore bottoms of my feet. Mondays are my mend, my hope, my rest.