Sundays

January 18, 2015

For most of my life, I have dreaded Sunday.

As a child, it meant a long morning seated on an uncomfortable church pew, listening to the pastor drone on and on about absolutes and thou shalt nots. There would be a break, and then back that night for more.

In my early working days, Sunday meant the leisure of the weekend was ending. Time to panic and figure out what I was going to do with my students the next day. They were frantic and laden with anxiety.

Later, Sunday meant more teaching. The entire day almost. Drudgery.

Then for about 5 months of my life, Sunday became my favorite day.

Waking early with you next to me, the day stretched out with lazy possibility. We could do anything or nothing. Or both. We'd venture out to get fresh baked French pastries, overpriced coffee, and - even though there was one waiting for me at my place - a newspaper because you knew I loved to read it.

We would sit on your patio and soak in Sunday. Breathe it in. We'd watch Sunday morning TV, like we were somebody's grandparents and talk about. . . everything.

Rainy Sundays were my absolute favorite. The soft drumming background music of the rain seemed written for us, and while the it poured down, I never ever felt a drop.

Now Sundays are a necessary evil. The paper: a chore to be completed. The coffee: way too expensive and too much trouble to go fetch.

So I pass the time by recalling those past imperfectly perfect Sundays until the sun finally sets, and I can just go back to sleep.