Sundays

When you wake up on a Sunday, the day holds you like an old sweatshirt, or like the still floral smell of your grandma's house that you remember from childhood. Don't rush it, and there's no sense in trying to prolong it. Stay in bed for awhile with your eyes closed and listen.

Wake up in your own time. There's always a constitutional of some kind to be stolen; this morning, for instance, it's a quest down to the grocery store for some coffee and fresh milk. The coat you've chosen isn't warm enough, but the slight chill in the Spring air signals to your joints that you're moving. The tumor-shaped parking lot of the shopping complex is nearly deserted. There's you, leather-jacketed, barely out of pajamas, unwashed with a cigarette, and there's an old woman leaning on one of those walkers that also functions as a cart. The wheels rattle a little and the rattle resounds. At first when she hears footsteps she'll snap around, suspicious. But when she sees you, she'll just smile in a way that wraps around you like a Sunday.

On the way to the grocery store you pass the Christian book shop. They're now trying to entice people in with the promise of coffee, and there are spiky neon signs that read "WOW COFFEE" in the windows, and another one that states "YES, WE NOW HAVE KOREAN BIBLES!" (Well FINALLY, you find yourself thinking, because hey, you're kind of a jerk.)

Right past the bookstore is the wig shop, which always strikes you as a weird progression.

There are others in the supermarket, others like you who know how to make the most of the day. A chunky lady wearing a bright pink sweatshirt and sweatpants. You wander up and down the aisles alone, thinking about how silly it is that they're playing "All by Myself" over the intercom. A man with a bunch of groceries offers to let you cut him in line, and you smile and thank him--there's another aisle free. You follow another man out of the supermarket, and the cashier yells after him, "I hope you feel better!" The man rearranging shopping carts waves goodbye.

The chilly wind nibbles your ears. Everything feels new and moves slowly.

Getting home. You'll inevitably drink cup after cup of hot coffee. There are responsibilities, but the distractions are just as pressing.

Saturdays, even when they unfold, have a sense of urgency to them that Sundays lack. Saturdays nag you to make use of them. Sundays are for motes of dust settling into corners, for taking the world in like you've just come up from the bottom of a well.