Dear Sunday,
Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite day. Actually, go ahead and tell Monday, it needs some tough love. But Sunday, you’re the only day that feels familiar, the only day that I miss on hectic Wednesdays or wild Saturdays. You sound like bluegrass music and you feel like hardwood floors warmed by the sun. You mean cinnamon rolls and time. Time to sit, to eat, to breathe. Time drips off of me on Sundays. The streets are clear and my to-do list can wait. Sunday, you are suspended in time, the dramatic pause before the next rush.
I’m sure not everybody loves you. Sorry, I’ve just got to be honest. For some people, you mean aches and pains and upsetting discoveries. Or for others you have an expectation of best behavior and pantyhose. But for me, you are comforting and filled with relief, even if it’s short-lived.
You don’t always feel like a Sunday. Sometimes the week envelopes you and you blend in with every other day I’ve struggled through. Two weeks ago was the first Sunday that truly felt like a Sunday in a while. Around noon I was sitting in a quiet diner with my friend, drinking milkshakes and talking about happy endings. The sun was streaming in through the window and we were both kind of sleepy and taking the day leisurely.
I wish I could live every day like a Sunday. As a culture, we tend to rush through everything. The faster, the better. It never seems like I have time for anything. As soon as something is finished, I’m rushing off to the next thing. It’s so nice to wade through the day and revel in each thing I do.
It’s so nice to eat cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven and read the comics in the Sunday paper.
It probably wouldn’t be wise to treat every day like a Sunday. That’s the reason why that day is so special. It’s a reward at the end of a long week. It’s a day to reap what I’ve sown. I can’t take extra time to read the funnies everyday just like I can’t eat cinnamon rolls every morning.
Thank you for popping up every now and then, Sunday. You’re always there right when I need you, even though I don’t necessarily know that I need you. But don’t be shy, Sunday, feel free to come by more often.
Fondly,
Joanne
