Sunday...

Sundays, like all other days, we had our routine. Sleep a little late watching the morning news, before getting up to wash clothes. I would usually go down first to the basement laundryroom, putting mine in to wash, then walking up the street to Mickey D's to bring us back a breakfast sandwich, so LBJ wouldn't have to cook. Sausage egg & cheese McMuffin for him, Sausage biscuit for me. By the time I got back, with breakfast, it would be time to put my clothes in the dryer and he would be up, getting his together to go next. I would help him take his clothes down, because he was too weak. But, we'd both pretend that wasn't the reason.

Then, he'd go out for his morning walk to find a cigarette, while I'd watch CBS Sunday morning and usually talked to my sis on the phone. We'd walk to the store if we needed something for Sunday dinner and he'd stop on the way back to get a beer. He got annoyed when I insisted on carrying the heavier grocery bags...but we both knew he couldn't do it. I would say I needed to stop and rest...whenever he seemed to be tiring or getting out of breath.

He would start cooking Sunday dinner and watching the Sunday political rant shows, Face the Nation/Meet the Press, etc. Sunday afternoon, I ran errands or spent time with friends while he cooked dinner, drank beer, put on his cap and team jersey to watch football and argued with his brothers on the telephone. If Washington won, he'd go out and stroll around the neighborhood, rehashing the game and celebrating with other fans and total strangers at the bus stop at 18th and Columbia Road. I could tell when they lost, because the jersey and cap would be nowhere in sight (or tossed across the room in frustration) when I returned. I almost never stayed out on Sunday evenings -- partially because the next day was a work day...but mostly because our Sunday evening routine was sacred.

We'd eat dinner while watching the weekend wrap up on the news, then watch 60 Minutes or the Simpsons, whichever wasn't a rerun. He'd let the couch out early and relax in bed, while I put away the food. Sometimes, I'd sit and watch television with him, or sit and read...while he changed channels incessantly. Around 9, he'd start dozing and I'd go back in my room to find something to wear to work and use the computer.

Later on he'd call out to see if I wanted some desert and I'd join him in the front room again, just relaxing for awhile. Lionel was a night owl. I am not. After the eleven o'clock news and -- more importantly -- the weather report. I'd connect and run the dishwasher. He'd make sure the door was locked and turn the lights down low -- maybe just the electric fireplace, or his lava lamp. Either he or I would murmur our nightly mantra, "Safe and Cozy"...I'd tell him goodnight and he'd say, "Goodnight, Alan." in a tone of voice that I will never, ever, ever forget, as long as I live --It makes me cry at the computer even as I remember that tone while typing this.

As the dishwasher churned through it's cycle, I'd go into the bedroom, turn out the lights, turn on the television and turn in. All through the night, like clockwork, I'd hear him out there, getting up, going to the bathroom, cooking, eating a snack, changing the channels, snoring softly, listening to music...a process he'd repeat several times during the night. There was something familiar and comforting about his nocturnal routine. I never realized how much -- until now.