Easy Like Sunday Morning

Photo:  luxist.com
Photo: luxist.com

Dear Sunday,

I miss you.

I remember those times when you would roll up, all cool and slow, and we would greet you like a long-forgotten friend.  You would  show up with your hat full of rainy-day ideas, bags stuffed full of lazy afternoon notions and un-hurried schemes, splaying them on the carpet in jumbles and heaps.  We didn’t worry about the mess.  Mondays were for messes.

You always brought the crossword, sometimes smudged from the freshness of the ink.  We’d take turns, boyfriend/girlfriend, pencils scrambling to fill in those blank, little boxes. Boyfriend took sports.  Girlfriend always fared better with books.

When we were awake enough to hear rumblings, we’d head out for brunch.  Proper brunch; not bagel and cream cheese brunch.  New York brunch.  Bloody Marys and mimosas and corn beef hash and eggs anyway you like them.  Hash browns and pancakes and coffee strong enough to clear the cobwebs from a hung-over mind.  A blue haze of burned off alcohol and cigarette smoke clinging to the ends of our hair.

Photo:  liquor.com
Photo: liquor.com

When the sun was shining, we would sometimes stroll through SoHo and window shop, stopping for an icy coke and a pretzel on the corner.  All those things we couldn’t afford, didn’t need, didn’t want, but were too pretty not to stop and stare.  Sometimes we would stroll through the Met, indulging my weakness for ornate furniture and mid-century costumes.  Or maybe the Guggenheim or MoMa, one of a thousand and one splendid galleries in SoHo.  Sometimes we’d simply recall Central Park in fall.

Remember those wintery, rainy afternoons of television marathons?  There was that time we watched the whole first season of The Sopranos in one day, listening to the rain tattoo a beat on the window sill, safe and cozy inside.  Take-out for dinner.  Indian?  Thai?  Mexican?  Burgers or Chinese, maybe some gourmet sandwiches from the deli on the corner.  Or maybe just toast and tea.  Those brunches were big.

Sometimes we’d fall asleep on the sofa in the middle of the day, for no reason other than we were up while the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.*

IMG_4427You haven’t come around lately, my old Sunday friend.  You’ve changed.  I guess you don’t want to hang around when the day begins at 5 am, when an infant wakes and hunger cries pierce the dark.  Or when you have to set out sleepily in the still chill morning for sports practice.  It’s not so much fun when errands take over and television is restricted and food needs to be bought and dinner needs to be cooked and scuffles refereed.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of you, my old Sunday lover, in a board game played after dinner on a winter night, or when the family cuddles up with a bowl of popcorn and The Goonies.  Sometimes when the long-ago girlfriend/boyfriend, now husband and wife, put their laptops away and settle in for a game of Scrabble I catch a whiff of my old Sunday friend.  Sometimes, during the dark, Danish winter, when the wind is howling and the rain is blowing sideways I will sneak a nap, and warm under a quilt, I may see a ghost of you, Sunday, in the shadow of my bedroom door.

I am not complaining.  I have sticky hugs to see me through.  I have the comfort of vows and the security of love to keep me warm.  I can go into those shops now, the ones with the too pretty things to not stop and stare, and sometimes even walk out with a bag over my arm.  I have Mondays and Tuesdays and all the other days marching forward, taking me with them.  I’m not complaining.  Not too much.

But if you’re ever around, my Sunday friend, stop by.

And bring the crossword with you.

The line referenced above was blatantly lifted from the below poem. One of my all time favorites.



We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

11 thoughts on “Easy Like Sunday Morning

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  1. I’m pretty sure Sundays used to be when I would get up about 2.00pm-ish, after getting in at 4.00am from a gig. I can’t be sure, because it’s all a bit hazy for me now in my dotage. I wonder what ever happened to them? My band mates, I mean. Anyway, Sundays spent as a family have their own appeal, sure. As for my band mates, meh!


    1. Next time you are in New York, sans children, go to brunch. Wear loose pants and count the celery stalk in your Bloody Mary as a vegetable serving. 😉


  2. Reblogged this on Wine and Cheese (Doodles) and commented:

    I’ve had more of these lately, though I wouldn’t say that trying to squeeze out an additional 10,000 words in a week is easy, it is surely more enjoyable than waking up at 4am to a screaming infant. Enjoy your Sunday, folks!


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