Marvin Gaye sounds on the tinny diner radio. It is chrome and used to gleam before being gradually baptized in diner grease. Sitting and sounding a little muddy. The crackling and hissing of frying bacon on a flat-top grill, accompanied with “Order Up!”s and the dinging of bells. There is a din of folks laughing and talking and enjoying their meals. Another tinkling bell at the open and close of the front door. This is Sunday Breakfast. This is after church. Where you will find brothers and sisters breaking bread, cleared eyed and amiable, forgetting weekday fighting and pettiness. No more pulling pigtails and trying to trip one another down the hallway. Today is a day of forgiveness and sorrys. At the trunk of your big oak tree there is a man sitting cross-legged making absolute eye-contact. There is a tire-swing that has been jostled by the window. Looking up you recall the grand treehouse that used to sit in your backyard, where so many games would be played, where so many moments of welcomed solitary isolation were sought. These time capsule memories now seem like ever-fading dust.