I want you to know that Sundays will be ours,
to rest, to revel, to rumple blankets on couches,
sun rays spilling through the glass and bathing us
in gold, and I will whistle something bright at the
grocery store, thinking of you as I tuck two grapefruits
into green bags, and I will kiss your crown as you cut, as you
sugar them, and as you take the first bite, I will sneak a
glimpse of you, the small smile that breaks through
when something thrills you, and I’ll smile right alongside.
Mondays will coax us back into busy rhythms, and Fridays
will beckon us to recapture the moments we felt young and
invincible, but Sundays are an empty page, space and time
up for grabs, and we will fill them with movies and music on
vinyl, telling each other the same stories, and when we are old
we will remember the Sundays most, a gift from a God who
saw that we were good, and we will join him in building worlds
and naming flowers.
And, outside our window, sirens may wail and flyers for
can’t-miss events will ripple in the wind, but we will not hear it
over the chorus of good company, exclusive party, the wild joy of
missing out, choosing this and each other, reminiscing over the
days when we wondered whether we wanted too much, and
we will know we have enough, grapefruit smiles and
feet intertwined on the well-worn rug.
michael king 