In America, Sunday is the beginning of the week. In England (and perhaps in other countries that I simply am not aware of), Sunday is the last, beautiful, and most glorious day of the week.
Now, I have definitely already admitted to missing England, but I’ll do it again. I miss the Sunday Roasts, the grey, overcast sky, the low clouds, the brisk air, the lush green foliage nearly everywhere, and, of course, my dad and dog.
But tonight, as I prepare to end my week and begin a new one, I look over to see my dearest Jude, laying so:
Although this may just be something to console me, I think he may know that tomorrow is Monday, the busy 5-day stretch will start, and I will be at home with him less. Less playing, less cookies, less kisses.
Believe me, Jude, I wish I could stay home with you all day, too.