Sunday.

The streets of Newtown are sleepy on a Sunday morning, with only the occasional person stumbling along in clothes that were perfectly clean last night and now look and smell like they’ve been rubbed all over a nightclub floor, and high heels clutched gingerly in tired hands. It’s a stark contrast to Saturday nights here, but I must admit the quiet comforts me. It reminds me that Newtown is not New York, and that it does indeed rest sometimes.

The barista at Citrus recognises me immediately as I step into the cafe and begins to make a soy latte with an extra shot of coffee for me before the words tumble from my mouth. He is always friendly, and always a little amazed to see that someone is awake enough to buy coffee at 7am on a Sunday, but here I am. We make small talk for a few minutes before I walk away with the warm coffee gripped in my cold hands.

Sunday has begun this way for the last month and I relish the morning routine. The day progresses similarly each week, with new conversations and friends made along the way, but more than anything the beginning and end are what I love the most.

Sunday ends with a walk along the same street that was sleepy in the morning and is always buzzing with life at 10pm on any given evening. Tonight a man with dreadlocks that dragged along the ground greeted someone who was juggling stress balls with a high five and a hug, and a man sat playing a guitar outside a pub quietly, a serene smile upon his face.

Frozen yoghurt replaces coffee at this point and becomes a bookend to the morning coffee. The yoghurt store is busy and the wait lets me think for a little while. It isn’t the fact that the day is over that I find enjoyable; it’s that there is so much good to reflect upon that my mind is grateful for the rest.

Life is slowly developing some sort of routine, but Sunday is my favourite. Coffee at the beginning, frozen yoghurt at the end, and so many good moments with some dear saints in between.

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