The thing I love most in a good relationship, the thing that captivates, that beguiles, that caresses the soul more than the sharpest flash of eyes, more than the most sudden realization of commonality, more than the most ego obliterating sex, the thing that, to me, defines romantic love, itself, is Sunday morning.
I love Sunday mornings ...
I love rising slowly, each of our mutual stirrings prompting the other closer and closer to wakefulness. I love a gentle touch and an hour's doze and repose in a lover's arms as the sun climbs from the trees. I love long and honest talk to a mutually sideways face, gentle caresses and pillow-pressed smiles. I love rising together, dressing together, striking out towards day together. I love long conversation over a languid breakfast, my favorite meal to eat out. I love all the things that Sunday morning gets to be, free from the rush and crush of the other six days' expectations and responsibilities
Sunday morning is when love is all there is and all that there's meant to be, a time infused with affection and intimacy that cannot be sublimated, sidestepped, simulated or falsified.
It's snowing in Georgia, something that happens rarely.
Where I grew up, in England and Wisconsin, snow was a common thing. We'd wake up several times a year to a thick and crisp blanket of unmarred white spreading, flowing across the ground like flood in slow motion. Over the following days and weeks it would drift and it would be plowed into mountains and rifts, a unique topography for winter.
In Georgia, though, it only snows with any veracity once every other, maybe every third year. The city is never prepared for it. It locks everything up for a day or two, trapping the inexperienced in their houses, bringing the city to its knees, halting all the world.
But christ it is beautiful.
And then it's gone.
My work has no posted policy on tardiness, we don't need one. People just show up when they're supposed to. They come in early and they stay late because they want to. Those that persist in the industry do so, not despite the hard work, but because of it.
This is a sign of a profession that people are in voluntarily. If your work needs to have a phonebook's worth of rules just to make sure that people are bothering to get the job done at all, you probably have a pretty shitty job.