the third sunday. a rare treat.
on the sundays that we all get to be home together for the day, it is a gift.
some mornings, when you stumble down the stairs to make coffee, the youngest is waiting, with his purple striped gloves and a stick for a sword.
some knucklehead is using a stick for art.
sometimes it's afternoon and you're still wearing jammies and playing catch with your dad.
and sometimes you can see clearly the dance they are dancing...where one leans maybe a little too heavily and loves maybe a little too loudly for the the preteen other, who pretends not to stand it, but will miss it when it's gone. should it ever go.