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.