Sundays Are Hard
I ask myself how many more will I count. Today as I start this piece I remind myself only 5 weeks have passed. I sigh in disbelief and exhaustion, knowing that if things remain as they are now, there are many more to come..
I was born at 5 A.M. on an October Sunday in 1959. Some 57 years later in 2016 Mom passed away at approximately 5 A.M. in October on a Sunday. The latest blow; my dear youngest son, Jay passed away on a Sunday morning in January of 2018, a mere 30 years old. Sundays are hard and lately they seem to be coming at me in an alarmingly rapid rate, or so it seems.
There is a poem called Monday’s Child… it came to mind because I am seemingly having some difficult experiences on Sundays. However, according to the poem and to paraphrase I, as a child born on the Sabbath, am blessed. Well I will leave that idea open for review.
I tell myself, I am okay, I tell myself, I must go on. I wonder from day to day, is any of this true. How can it be? Every tear that falls, and they are bountiful, reminds me of the pain I want to go away but it will not. Sometimes I tell myself do what you used to do on Sundays. Do what you grew up doing, do what feels right. Let me share something with you..NOTHING FEELS RIGHT. Sunday is a marker, no matter how I try when 3 A.M. rolls around some how my eyes are fixed on the clock. My semi-awake state tells me 19 minutes and __ weeks ago my child floated away from life as I know it. Sundays are hard.
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