Love You On A Sunday

Love You On A Sunday

Dear B,
So, Sister-Heart, on the day of your birth, my gift to you is this Sunday. The nodding off sleep of contentment and love on a Sunday. The park getting dark on a Sunday. The new hope that sits green and quiet on a Sunday. The shimmering leaves I can see out my patio door as I sit here and write this. The baby crying across the alley as I sit here and write this. The cans of beer not quite ready in the fridge as I write this. The song that's playing whose chorus is telling me: 'Here it comes....' as I write this and the singer's right: here it comes. It's coming for all of us, this green knowing that no one gets hurt because we've done nothing wrong on a Sunday.

And when the head lays itself on a pillow, there's a slow smile, a kind closing of wise eyes that have lived on a Sunday, that have loved on a Sunday, loved in no particular direction or just loved anywhere; that love flung everywhere on a Sunday. The love that asks for nothing back on a Sunday. The perfect life that strikes me dumb with gratitude on a Sunday and someone passing in the street may think me mad with haunted eyes, but if they only knew how my heart broke so slow and kind on a Sunday and I always ask for more on a Sunday.

And when dark comes I will be alone in bed but not tired on a Sunday because the night is still wild in me, come what may on a Monday, an alarm and an office but right now it's a world away; right now I feel if I could only let go just so, I'd float straight out my window.

So many Sundays to come but I saved this special one for you, B.

This is my Happy Birthday to you: to love you on a Sunday.

Background: So here it is: my birthday note to a special lady on the other side of the country.  It's called 'Love You On A Sunday'.   It came out fast and it came out honest.  I am in the office right now but I no my destiny is to write and I feel fine to bide my time before the samurai-strike.  It is on its way.

To the unborn

To the unborn

This savage existence
Holds blossoms in its hands
Crushes them to free them
Their pollen, in the sky
A gift to the unborn
A death secretly in love with life

by Vassag Hovsep

Born right after you

Born right after you


You are one year older than me and you are about to be a father.

I can't help but think of all those times I finished my desert before you.

How slowly you opened your presents.

Pretending to cry so you'd get in trouble.

All those fights that seemed so important at the time.

Looking up to you for everything.

Feeling like you're the funniest person I've ever met.

Having a best friend to grow up with.

To push the van out of the snow with. To play risk for days with.

To talk about god, and life and bottled water until we wake dad up.

Becoming an adult and showing me, in your very undramatic way, the unconditional love a brother has for a sister.

It's funny how time passes and I realize you are that person somewhere else now, for other people. 

And that's okay. It's okay to grow.

But I still think of how grateful I am to have been born right after you, and now I will be there for your first child.