The warm embrace of golden hour falls upon the meadow. I don’t enjoy watching her leave as I know exactly what it means…

Back to monotony, the grind, the pain staking labour that just makes Sunday so much sweeter and yet so bitter.

She is known for being a day of rest and a day so serene that it lifts all of that pain from your chest. I cannot count the number of times that I have said with weighted breath ‘I love Sunday’ and in the same rasp whisper of how fleeting she is just by her own nature.

There is a peace that comes with Sunday which I cannot put into words, rather, when I try to rationalise it…

From Monday to Saturday all I have are rushing memories but never with Sunday. She does not rush me. She holds me like one of her own, she nurses me when I am ill and she coddles me.

Sunday is a mother. A mother who encourages you to give her the weight of your burdens and holds no grudge against you. She awaits your visit in the kitchen window, dusty with age yet so… comforting. She will never move, she will never change. She will always be there. She will always be Sunday.

I enter her house like a child at the beginning of my life, fearful of what lies ahead but hopeful nonetheless. Sunday washes me in this blissful comfort I can only describe as someone who has made peace. A much older soul with a kind and warming nature, untarnished by the gnashing of time.

Oh how I wish every day could be Sunday.