There’s nothing original about finding Sundays vaguely depressing. Lots of people know what I’m talking about.
There was a time years ago when I loved someone who didn’t love me back. It was awful. His sister thought I was excellent, though. You’re like a Friday morning! she would say, meaning I carried a sense that life was a constant state of happy anticipation. (A completely inaccurate assessment, but not one with which I was likely to quibble.)
I don’t know whether weekends are always better in anticipation; many of them actually have excellent content throughout. But Sunday! Quiet streets, boredom, and the impending prospect of the return to responsibility. It’s like the last day of vacation every single week.
Sunday has a way of making another life, any other life, preferable to the dull, boring, blah, tedious workaday existence that is normal adulthood.
Even when your life is, in reality, perfectly lovely all seven days of the week.
Rain on skylights, frantic to come in.
Beside me tall windows take in
a garden view: lavender leaning,
cardinals at the feeder,
tall crape myrtle blooming pink.
The glass a translucent silver smear.
I lean to the work, reining in
what I want of a life
I can’t quite see but must merely
imagine. This must be enough.
Rain takes possession of the day:
coming and going, clouds in transition,
a complicated sky. The dog and I
walk between storms, pink flowers
and beads of new water in his black curls.
We walk our evening circle, taking in
changes the rain has wrought, the good and ill.
I listen to stories of love and murder,
nod to neighbors I’ve never met,
along familiar sidewalks where now
downed leaves and
drowned earthworms curl, pale strands;
and spiders rush to branches where
they’ll set their webs out for the night.
I walk with my good dog,
leash in hand, thinking nothing
until there is no place else to go