Sundays Left

Sunday is when I feel loneliest.  It seems to rain every Sunday here.  Dreariness taking on its own life and seeping into mine.  Sunday is the slowest day, meant for lazy mornings, pancakes, dog walks, coffee, and deep breaths of fall air as the leaves dry crisp red and fall to the ground.  

Sundays here are too wet for leaves to drift slowly to the ground, bouncing with each little breath of air.  Sundays here are the soft patter of rain on the roof.  The ping of brown rainwater hitting the bottom of the metal tin intended to hold sugar is a steady beat to remind us of the leak in our house that has forgotten how to stay warm.  

Sundays are the days you make plans for sewing those little pillows that soften a draft under your front door and consider what other home remedies will prolong the gas bill from spiking.  Shopping list: more blankets, things to hang on the walls.  Sundays here are spent staring at the walls.  Wondering how long before it feels like home and if hanging up the chart of Casco Bay for a third time will make it go faster.  Or if trying a third time to make it stick will only serve to remind you that you, too, don’t feel like you’ve stuck yet here.  So, Sundays here are for mind-numbing.  Scroll until your hand is cold and pins and needles are the only way back.  Scrolling is meant for sad people, isn’t it.  I don’t think I am sad–just missing Sundays there, not here.

Sundays here are for phone calls home that feel flat and drag you back.  But not back to the chili on the stove and dog curled up on the couch–moving only when the patch of sunlight passes by.  Instead, the awkward silence creeps in like dreariness.  No one knows what to talk about, unspoken arguments, and brothers not at home.  Sundays here become reminders of what you left, and what you are left with.  

Voices over the phone reminding you of the things that will never exist again.  First day of school pictures and field hockey games.  Pumpkin carving and leaf piles.  Thanksgiving dinner and Packers games.  It’s all over.  Maybe it’s been over for some time now.  But Sundays here remind you that there’s no getting it back.  All you can do is make it for yourself all over again and again and again–friends and lovers and children and found family and made family and given family, all until there are no Sundays left.