Sunday mornings are for coffee. And eggs.

They have always meant something. Years ago, Sundays were for family--for 11:30 mass and breakfast right after. They were for Catholic friends and parents and nice talks over hot mugs and scrambled eggs. Sundays were for an afternoon walk through Barnes & Noble and for you to peek your head into Ann Taylor LOFT, "just in case."

In college, Sunday was for being homesick. It was for disliking the church in your new town and slowly ceasing to show up there, and for calling your parents to catch up. There were still eggs and coffee, though, as you sat in the dining hall with your friends and ate and laughed. After your first year at school, your new Sunday became normal and you looked forward to that omelet and those potatoes and the never ending coffee with your beautiful roommates and some other people who would become your family away from home.

Then you graduated. Maybe you went back home for some time. You could have your original Sundays back--just reach out and take them--but you've changed. You might still go to church sometimes. You might still spend the day with your parents sometimes. You might go back to college to spend the weekend with your boyfriend sometimes, letting Sundays continue with friends and a dining hall. The Sundays have evolved, and life and your very self feel different.

Another year later, Sunday was for working. It was for serving coffee, but no eggs, to people from 10:30 AM to 5:00 PM and wishing you had time to write. It was for thinking about your thesis and dreaming of a job you would love. It was for being a little bit sad, and wishing to be spending the day with a book and your parents or roommates from college or your brother or boyfriend--anyone you love.

And now, just a few months later, that coffee shop has hired a new person and you have Sundays off again, and this time they are so that you can write. So you can tip-toe into the living room for an old Moleskine and actually put a pen to paper because people are asleep in the guest room where you keep your computer. Sundays are for reading and working on your dreams and deciding where to go later for eggs and coffee.

Sundays might be for missing your old life. Or they could be for figuring out your new one.

I remember leaving for college.

I stood in my driveway with Emma's arms wrapped around my neck and thought, "Never." I would never find another friend like her, and I would never be the same because of it.
It was August and despite the early hour, the hot Virginia morning already fell, muggy on our bare shoulders. Thick brown ringlets and freckles merged as our embrace tightened.
My dad put the final box of my stuff into the back of our black Suburban. "I'll visit you every weekend," she sobbed into my ear. I let go of her and got in the car. I remember feeling like I'd never have another friend like Emma again.


I didn't realize at the time that I would meet amazing new friends in college, and that the circle I ran with in high school would only get closer as the years passed.


Emma didn't visit every weekend. How could she? She was still in high school with sports and homework and plans of her own. But she came when it was important.

She always came for my birthday.

I remember coming home to Roanoke and always meeting up with Emma immediately. Sometimes I'd just drive from Farmville straight to her house. We'd eat sushi for lunch or egg sandwiches and lattes for breakfast and go running and paint our nails and nap and read and eat again. We'd spend hours and cans of hairspray doing our makeup and curling our hair, going out on adventures and just laughing, laughing so much.  I remember one winter break, roasting marshmallows by the fire in her mom's house. We woke up much later, warm and full and confused and curled up on the floor together like kittens.

I remember driving to Richmond to get my left ear pierced and being so, so scared. I remember Emma pushing me along and then holding my sweaty hand when I was too scared to do anything by myself.


I remember planning house parties that were themed and had corresponding invitations. We'd plan a menu and invite our friends and wear dresses and really high heels. 

I remember getting wisdom teeth out. I went first, and she came over and lay in bed with me, putting ice on my face and laughing at my chipmunk cheeks. Then a few years later it was her turn and we were huddled under blankets with books and nail polish once again.

I remember her decision to transfer from Roanoke College to William and Mary, and how far away Williamsburg really is. I remember weekend visits to see her and how much fun we have together, no matter where we are.

I remember a lot of things from our long, eventful friendship.

I don't remember a time when she hasn't been there.

I'm going to see my friend today. 

I hope you have a nice weekend, too.

This is going to be my new blog thing. 

This book is three hundred pages of writing prompts. It was a required text for one of my creative writing workshops at Longwood and we did a few as homeworks and in-class exercises, but we didn't really make a significant dent in the table of contents.

I'm going to write my way through it now. 

Once a week, I'm going to post one. 

Starting this weekend.