Man, do I hate Sunday. I do, I really hate Sunday. Sunday is the worst day of the week.
Sunday is the end. Sunday is loss.
Ever spent a weekend with someone and it was a beautiful and amazing weekend? Your time together was easy and peaceful and compassionate. Then you wake up on Sunday and it all falls to shit. You start feeling yourself pull away from your friend long before the goodbyes are said. You think the more distance you put between you and your friend, the less it’s suppose to hurt when they leave (PS, it doesn’t). Then after they leave, you are filled with regret that you didn’t pass your final moments together in the easy, peaceful, and compassionate way you spent the rest of your time. Since the leaving is the last thing that happened it is likely to remain the most vivid memory of the weekend, say goodbye to the fond memories of couch cuddling and joke making. God, I hate Sunday. Sunday ruins everything.
Sometimes I wish that I could just sit quietly in a room and not make a sound and not move too suddenly and not breathe too loudly and ease the loss. Sunday could just slowly fade into Monday. Monday isn’t so bad afterall…at least it’s not Sunday.
Sunday is everywhere. Sunday is the death of my grandparents. Sunday is the last day of vacation. Sunday is the view of the people you care about from the rear view mirror. Sunday is sleeping alone in bed with memories of that awful goodbye.