Love and Sunday Mornings

So it’s cold outside.

So spring is not “supposed to be like this”.

In this world and existence of chaos, of wars and terrorism, of constant fears, doubts, and politics, of incessant noise and turmoil, there was at least one place where it was quiet, where Sunday was in its element and was just being its unequivocal epitome of Sunday-ness. It was calm. It was warm. There was no rush, no hurry. Things were in their perfect sweet spot in the universe, like shoes that hug your feet in the right, most amazingly delicious way. In our little cozy nook in the vast Universe, nutella banana crepes were being flipped (theatrically, at times), fresh oranges were being squeezed, and Love, oh my goodness, the Love was bubbling and spilling over.

Not in any of my wildest of dreams have I imagined “this” to be “like this”.

It’s unspeakable. It’s indescribable.