It’s Sunday.  Our home smells of pork
slow roasting for dinner.
In the early afternoon after church
we’ll sit in the dining room to slice it.

No.  That’s not true.

It is Sunday and throughout our home
the aroma of dinner waits.  Only my husband
and I will share the meal.
And he does not go to church. 

I do. 

I was never part of a Sabbath tableau.
Mom and I went to church early, headed
to Sidney’s Cafe as soon as Monsignor dismissed
us with, Ite, Missa est.

Deo Gratias.

Mom directed dining room traffic. 
From the age of 10 I worked
the cash register 
on the busiest day of the week. 

Food was everywhere.

Plates of bacon and eggs.  Heavy platters
of fried chicken, prime rib
(Dad’s Sunday specialty),
an occasional order of chow mein. 

Sunday life.

Dad cooked from early morning
until 7 PM closing
when we finally sat, said Grace.
Our customers feasted first.

.