I wasn’t ready when I lost my Sundays.
I didn’t even know that Sundays could be stolen from you.
It took a while but I’ve adjusted after sampling my sadness and allowing the grief to rest.
When I was a child I heard my mother and her friend Miranda, ‘Aunty Mi’ to me, talking about a lady who was so terribly sad since her heart had been stolen by some wicked man.
Hearing such monstrosity made my heart beat faster coring a sicky wet sump into my child imagination. A place that little girls should never ever fall into.
That night I remember laying frosty still wondering if a heart thief was lurking around outside with the design of my heart, a trophy to steal.
I so wanted to keep my little heart and for it to grow up to be big and strong one day.
My little girl heart did grow up, fighting a few heart wars, even receiving a medal for bravery for ‘Above And Beyond The Call’ …so they insisted.
It got to the stage after hearing the over-kill time again-again of “they just don’t know how I coped" that I swore back at them “When you have no choice, you have no choice”.
It was either walk or crawl and my knees were already bloodied from crawling from a war zone of the tender me fields.
I knew I wouldn’t fly to the top of my mountain but I would find a steady path.
My memory of Sundays as time went on dimmed except for one that would never leave me.
How thankful my grown-up little heart was.
It was the last Sunday we had together.
We pretended you were Columbus and I was the world that you slowly, so slowly navigated from morning till night, mapping the circumference of us. We played like children again with the wonder of being together and talked about what we might do with all our lovely Mondays to Sundays.
We agreed that we should always start our Sundays by serving up words to each other from my chubby dictionary observing if they dripped or drawled, frolicked or coaxed for tummy tickles. We would spoon our thoughts on life and love into word batter for pancakes.
We would never be hungry only thirsty for each other. It was a thirst that we never wanted to quench.
I don’t mind not having Sundays anymore.
How the human spirit adjusts.
We are like merchants who won’t quarrel the price of our wares when we know the cart is not really as well stocked as it may look.
A little bit of a ruse on the cheeks goes a long way to accepting the bids that keep the wheels from not falling off the cart.
So I take my other six days and make them a little more shiny and a little more about sparkly things. I don’t eat pancakes anymore they seem flat and tasteless but I am thirsty six days a week.
Thirsty for every day of my life.
© K S Hardy 2010
Accepting what seems unacceptable, I wonder if it can be done by a little bit of sampling over time even when you have a day taken away leaving you with a six day week……
Losing time makes up for itself somewhere else.
What the human spirit can and does achieve for me are the oars of inspiration….x