Sundays Always Take Me Back

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

It is Sunday again. The longest day of the week for me. A day to rest and contemplate. But unfortunately, it is always Sundays when I feel the weight of all I’ve said and done and seen throughout this extended life of mine. For when the body rests, the mind accelerates and memories are revealed and exposed once more in the quiet of a Sunday afternoon.

SUNDAYS ALWAYS TAKE BE BACK

By Al Garcia

It is Sunday again.  The longest day of the week for me.  A day to rest and contemplate.  But unfortunately, it is always Sundays when I feel the weight of all I’ve said and done and seen throughout this extended life of mine.  For when the body rests, the mind accelerates and memories are revealed and exposed once more in the quiet of a Sunday afternoon.  And Sundays seem so long at times, because the memories never seem to stop.

Sundays is when I recall the days gone by.  The carefree days of my childhood along the Rio Grande and running barefoot and shirtless without memories of a past and only glimpses of tomorrows yet to come.  And looking back I realize how brief were those carefree days.

It seems that the days and weeks and years that have passed me by would somehow fade into the shadows of my life.  But yet, Sunday mornings always take back to times and places that touched my life or changed the path I took. 

It is on these quiet tranquil Sundays that I relive moments that have given me joy and sorrow and pain.  This morning I awoke, thinking of when I was a young man living in Edinburg and of getting on a bus with other simple-minded kids my age and waving out the window of the bus to my parents standing stolidly on the sidewalk watching me wave goodbye.  I felt an emptiness deep down inside of me because I was leaving my nest and flying away to war.

The thing I remember the most I guess was not seeing the usual sparkle in my parents’ eyes.  Instead I saw tears running down my mother’s cheek, while my dad simply looked straight ahead as if looking right through me.  You see, my dad was strong, composed – he was a cowboy type of guy, and men don’t cry.  And I, I was still just a kid, not yet a man, so I was allowed to shed a tear that I quickly wiped away for fear of being seen by the boys that were also waving as the bus began to drive away.

Strange how the images and the emotion of so many years ago still remain inside of me.  My parents no longer here to embrace me or encourage me, or love me.  Too many friends I once had, stolen by time and some by the ugliness of war.  I left as a boy, leaving behind my family, my friends and my past, and returned as a man and as a stranger to an unfamiliar and unrecognizable place where I had once run carefree and shirtless as a boy.

Sundays always take me back – to times that meant so much to me.  To times much simpler and much humbler and much easier.  How green was my Valley back then.  How full was my life and my heart. 

And it’s Sunday morning once again, and the day will be long and the memories too many to count, and some too painful to relive again.  But then, no one promised me that life would be easy or simple, only that life was worth living – even during the longest day of the week – Sundays.


Submitted: June 03, 2021

© Copyright 2021 A.Garcia. All rights reserved.

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