Sundays

Sundays are for long, suburban sunset drives—windows down, hair rustling in the warm wind, Khalid bumping through the speakers. 

Sundays are for walks through trees and down winding paths, towards the edge of the expansive ocean, a choppy surface that spreads as far as the eye can see.

Sundays are for reading and thinking, pondering and listening, and reflecting on where you came from and where you are going.

Sundays are for deep breaths and sighs, soft scents and buttery yellows.

Sundays are for brunches laced with cakey donuts and ample orange juice and coffee.

Sundays are mellow and sweet, vast and all-encompassing, calm and wistful.

Sundays are for Hygge.

Why can't every day be like Sunday?