Sunday Mornings

Sunday mornings were the most beautiful time of the week. Of that, she was convinced.

An early riser: age no longer permitting the much longed for 8 hours of dreamful escape that it once had, she would awaken at first light and quietly make her way down the stairs to her kitchen, tiptoeing as if in an attempt not to wake the world as it lay paralysed and unconscious around her. Any sound that filled this silent world would not only be an annoyance but an unwelcome alert, commanding men, women and children across the globe to awaken into the panic of everyday life. But not in this house – a two story, forest-wrapped haven tucked away in the outskirts of another concrete jungle.

The kitchen was a time capsule. Two-toned cupboards with floral prints surrounded a pool of cracked tiles on the floor. Mismatched worktops were the perfect foundation for aging appliances, tired from years of repair. She pressed the button on a coffee machine that appeared misplaced – it was a gift from the ones she loves most, determined to provide the convenience that the 21st century had to offer. As the poetic gurgles of the coffee being filtered sung her a morning lullaby, the warm and soothing rays of the burning sun burst their way through mesh curtains, tickling their way up her timeworn arms, pausing slightly on the imperfections, blemishes and scars of a lived-in vessel.

The small and unassuming porch, nestled comfortably to the East of the building, was the perfect setting to watch the daily theatrical performance of an unwitting cast unfold. She would finish her cup of coffee rather than being mid-sip, when the first actor would appear upon the backdrop of homes, trees, and, in the distance, looming skyscrapers that stood proudly guarding the city boundaries. The actor was late on Sundays, the troubles of a hectic week finally wearing off, but the threatening preparations of another week shackling the performer to reality. A golden retriever offered companionship by his side – she too was quickly growing old, grey whiskers erupting around her cheeks. Unwanted by her acquaintance at first, a gift for a daughter who had since left to begin the next chapter in her story, she now provided solace to the loneliness he battled.

Afterwards came the runners. Health on two wheels that attacked the impulse to be wrapped in goose feather duvets and heavenly memory foam pillows. They came in fragments, mirroring the desperation that lay somewhere within. It was a race that each runner was blissfully unaware of. As each would depart back to their separate abodes, the victor would be the one who could run damp hands over a sweat covered naked body, over the battle wounds and the bumps while analysing what gazed back at them without feeling anxious about how big it was, or how tight it was, or what colour it was, or how old or damaged or wrinkly or fat or thin or ugly or stretched or marked or contoured it was. The victor had a smile. He had reached his goal because a number told him so.

And in time young couples passed by the porch. Twenty something youths caught up in timeless moments of passion and fire, young love growing roots on the grass at the front of the stage. It’s the morning after the night before. A tall man with bouncing black hair stopped from his slow wander and released his hand from the grasp of an equally tall woman with fair hair and a summer dress that highlighted the season unfolding in the surroundings. He took his hand and curled a wandering strand of hair from her forehead, pushing it behind her ear, and softly planting a lingering kiss on her lips. He lifted his hand and put it gently around her shoulder, continuing their romantic morning stroll. The old lady closed her eyes. A flashback is painted on her eyelids of the love that she had once shared with a handsome, sophisticated banker from the city. She sees the stream they used to skinny dip in under the guise of dark moonlit skies. She smells the flowers that he used to pick from the field that ran parallel from his walk home from work. She hears his voice, as he croaked out an Elvis karaoke song in a dusty bar just outside the city. And she feels his hand gently permitted in hers, the wrinkles of time forming dunes where there used to be none, the pulse slowly slipping into oblivion.

In between flurries of couples came the ones who got away. High heels in hands, a dress that looked less flattering when revealed to the harsh brightness of daylight, or since-dried sweat marks on a baggy t-shirt that hung loosely on the shoulders of a man who is underdressed for the Sabbath. Pillows, and sheets, and hands in hands, and limbs multiplying on a bed. She pretended not to notice, and they pretend that she isn’t spectating the events they wish to forget – the lingering effects of a hangover that intensified as the fresh morning breeze invaded their lungs.

The peace of the morning is interrupted by the air filling with the sound of laughter. A granddaughter, clinging for her life against the shoulders of her Grandfather who is too old and too conflicted with the aches and pains of age to gain the approving looks of his wife who lingers slightly behind as he tears off down the tarmac, only too willing to reclaim the magic and fun of his younger days.

Yes, Sunday mornings were the most beautiful time of the week and she knew it. As she absorbed the play that continued in front of her, the old lady took time to carefully rise from her chair. She took her cup and entered her house, laying it clumsily on a table – cleaning it was a job that could wait. She pressed a button on an old radio and a quiet song started to play. She danced slightly, moving as well as her arthritis-afflicted knees would allow, eventually collapsing comfortably into an old-fashioned armchair and resting her head into the upholstery. It’s ironic, she considered, that the insomnia of the night rarely lasted into the day. Closing her eyes, she allowed a peaceful snooze to consume her.

The church bells ringing noon awoke the old woman. She stretched slightly, reaching for a pen and a little black notebook she kept on an antique table that rested beside the armchair. Opening it on the first page, she read the words scribbled on the paper;

“Monday May 24th, 2021

Grandma,

Tomorrow will be three years since you lost your battle with the disease and not a day goes by where my heart does not ache. Dad tries to tell me that it’s OK, that you’re with Grandpa and watching over us. But that does not help the suffering I feel. I long for you - to stroll along the stream with you and pick flowers with you and drink coffee with you.

I miss your roast dinners, and I miss the horrible noises that came out of your radio but maybe that was just what songs used to sound like when they were made. I wish I had made a list of the songs that we used to listen to so I could listen to them now and sing and dance to them like we used to – I’ve tried to look online for them with no success.

Dad and I are going to your headstone tomorrow to lay your favourite flowers – Lilies. I know you’ll be with us if you can be. I just wish I could hug you one last time. The hug that told me that no matter what was going on with life that I would be OK, and you would always be there for me.

I love you Grandma, and I forever hold you in my heart.”

A stirring noise from upstairs lifted the old lady from a trance, peeling her attention away from the notepad. A young woman in pajamas came down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. A man wearing pajama bottoms followed her downstairs; “Morning, you,” he said, a tired smile growing on his face.

“Morning,” she replied, returning the smile and allowing him to brush his lips against hers.

The woman sat on the sofa next to the armchair. The man stumbled to the kitchen. Pointing to the cup that sat on the table, he turned back to the woman. “Were you up last night?” he said.

"Yes,” she hesitatingly confirmed, “I was looking for my diary but couldn’t find it, so I made a hot chocolate to help me sleep”. He glanced beside her, almost directly into the old woman’s eyes. He walked over to her, smiling. “You mean this diary?” he said, picking up the little black notebook on the page it was open on. The young woman nodded, a sense of relief coming over her. He handed her the book on his way into the kitchen, and she flipped to the next blank page near the back.

“I don’t think we’ll make rent this month, what with your shop still being closed and us paying double the rent to live here,” it was a conversation she dreaded, but one that was necessary. This is the home she longed and dreamed to live in, and she was determined not to lose it. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll find a way. We always do,” the voice returned from the kitchen.

The man solemnly stepped from the kitchen; two mugs of coffee balanced precariously in one hand. The tears that couldn’t be stopped rolled down her pale cheeks and his warm hand was a welcome feeling below her eyes, slowly wiping the tears away. “If she knew I had managed to move into this house but blew it because of money she would be devastated.”

She pulled herself together slightly, sniffling and bravely holding back the tears. “Hey, I’m expecting a letter from my dad soon, can you check and see if there’s any post?” the young woman asked, gazing into the man’s eyes. He rooted a kiss on the top of the woman’s head. “There’s no post today, darling,” he sat down on the sofa, exhaling, “post doesn’t come on Sundays.”

She sipped at her coffee – it had gone cold since they had lay in longer this morning. Convinced it was in her imagination when she heard the creaky hinges of the letter box open, she was stunned to discover the man she cared for so deeply walking cautiously towards the letterbox. He stuttered something under his breath, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.

In silence, he dropped the envelope in front of her, her name curled in fancy calligraphic letters. She opened it carefully from the side, lifting a small note that had been ripped from a pad, and reading it aloud quietly;

“To my beautiful granddaughter,

By the time this reaches you, I will likely be long gone. I’ve left very specific instructions for a little nest of money to be kept aside for you that should be sent to you only in a time of need – whether it be marriage, or buying a home, or raising children – we all need a helping hand sometimes.

Know that I am now in peace and sitting on heavens porch where it is Sunday every day, watching you grow into the perfect young woman I know you will be. Keep strength as an ally, and always live each day with purpose.

Until the end of time, I will always love you.

Grandma”

Lifting the envelope through shaking hands, a small piece of paper feathered slowly onto the table, landing upside down. Turning it over and being careful not to stain it with the tears that fell from the waterfalls coming from her eyes, she read the amount to herself - $20,000.