This Sunday feels like sleeping in, leisurely writing while I bake chocolate chip cookies, listening to Morrissey and Roxy Music, church, picnicking to enjoy the peak-blooming camellias, maybe tea and an NPR playlist tonight, some reading. I’ve had Sundays that are opposite of this, serving coffee to people in crisp shirts reading the Times and feeling like I would never be one of those people, floating around until the evening, hospitality nights and dollar drinks in sketchy bars.
Sunday is technically the first day of the week, but it feels like the last.
I used to make big dinners on Sundays. It was my favorite day to do so. Homemade Bolognese and papadrelle, or fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
I start to feel like a different characters, Sunday to Sunday.
How far away it seems, life in little Bungalow, an orange kitchen, sauce simmering, the radio on and the windows open, baby sounds from the next room.
Even in the days when my life blurred, when I wasn’t working, Sundays felt distinct. I remember one: fighting in a grocery store, a bag of rice thrown on the floor bursting open with grains the color of linoleum, two men with an acoustic guitar howling the blues in the depths of winter, the whole room smelling of alcohol.
All part of this extraordinary run we get.
If I can express why the differences of those days matter, and how the differences are also the same, then I’m getting closer. As different a character I felt those weeks of Sundays, as different as the character of a given Sunday itself, they are the same and I am the same. The heart inside is the same, if careworn.
Everyday is like Sunday.