A nearly perfect Sunday looks like blue sky sunshine after a week of stormy drizzle, cold enough for jeans but warm enough to sit out in the old cemetery with your iced coffee and ginger scone listening to your honey-pie's sweet voice mingle with the birdsong. Fancy footwork through the muddy paths and dewy morning grasses.
A nearly perfect February Sunday looks like streets rinsed clean and shiny, like windows opened up, dirt being swept down the steps, the comforter draped over the shrubbery outside. Four stacks of paperbacks on the sidewalk. It looks like air touches everything.
It looks like three writers at a coffee shop sharing their momentum with each other. Only writers could call it a submitting party, on a Sunday so nearly perfect because you release some stories from your lap-top, get a sore back from so much writing.
A nearly perfect Sunday smells of smoked Gouda and steamed broccoli and pine-fresh hardwood floors. It's the hot shower waiting at the end of the day.
It's the memory of what makes you cry, what made you cry just last night, and the shock of coming home and finding nearly all the books gone from the sidewalk, four stacks of paperbacks gone, given away, working their way now into other people's lives, hearts.