Sunday Mornings

I remember  that when I was younger, Sundays used to be a big deal. They were like the holy grail of all days. Every Sunday my mother would wake me up for church at around six or seven a.m.. I would get up, and try to get things ready. Shower, eat, brush hair and teeth. It was a routine to me. Now, when I was younger, I shared a room with my older sister. She wasn't an early bird like me.She was more of the type to wake up at four o'clock and think that it was nine p.m.. She'd grumble and complain, but always got ready just in time. My little sister was always behind me.
When we were all ready, we set out across the street, to my grandmother's house. We waited for my grandfather, who was an usher. We all walked down the street, while my grandfather cracked jokes. He was always a jolly person. He was almost never serious. He was what people would say "big-boned." My grandfather was the only person in our family with blue eyes. They always sparkled, like he had a hidden joke that he was dying to tell.
When we got to church, I sat in a pew and waited for the service to begin. The entire time, I was always sitting quietly, like a china doll. Never stirring, quiet, and emotionless. I usually sat in between my grandparents, and fell asleep during service. I always thought that the preaching was boring. If I didn't fall asleep, I would read another book in the Bible. The book of Ester, or Ruth.
At that time, our church was going through a  rough time. We were losing members and fast. People were worried about the attendance and tithes. If we didn't accumulate enough money, we couldn't pay bills, and our church would be shut down. I loved this church, I 'd been going there since I was five. I couldn't bear to see it closed.
 After service was done, we would head back to my grandparent's house and decide where we would go out to eat. It was always someplace nice, not like a fast-food restaurant. A that time, didn't get why they called them that. My definition of a restaurant was a place with fancy napkins and menus. The food also came out on glass plates, the drinks too. It wasn't  a place where people yelled out orders and the food was wrapped up and greasy. The drinks were not put in plastic cups. We always would decide to go to a place called Ted's. It was a relatively nice place and had the best food. We would order and eat, while talking about our weeks, or what the latest book I had read was about. When we were done, we would always get desert.
On Sunday afternoons, I would grab a book at my house and go back to my grandmother's. I would go to her guest bedroom and flip open the book. The guest bedroom was the best room to me. The walls were painted lavender and it had a big queen-sized bed. There were little night stands on each side of the bed, and a big closet. She also put a dresser on the wall facing the bed. There were big, wide windows on two of the walls. It always felt like a second home to me. That's why I read there on Sunday afternoons.
My books were my escape. Whatever bad thing that was going on at the time, I could get away from with a book. I started to read young adult books when I was about eight. They were inspiring and thoughtful, much better than the small chapter books and picture books that everyone else in my classes were reading. I would sometimes grab smooth, thick novels, the pages yellowed and thick with age. Other times I would grab a science fiction book, which was my favorite type of book. I could always escape my reality and move into the world of mysterious creatures, or complicated technology. I would read until I had to go home.
Sunday nights at my house were the nights my mother actually cooked. She had promised each of us one meal a month, except for Sundays, if she wasn't tired from work, she would make a stew, or maybe ribs with corn. Whatever it was, I would eat heartily and love it. She was rarely in a good mood, but on Sundays, she always was. It was just her optimistic day. Like I said, Sundays were the holy grail of all days to me.