Sunday is a time capsule.
The air is still,
Lavender cleaning solution freshens up our broken into home.
Like your oldest running shoes;
There is comfort here.
Signs of laughter litter the hallways.
Underwear from the night before lie in the bathroom.
Bottles lay askew,
Shared in the hands of brothers.
A fleeting memory you can only lightly grasp.
We bounce around,
Never leaving the walls that hold so much solace.
Detailing the dirty walls,
Straightening shifted paintings,
Priming our place of peace.
We clear our minds as we clear away dirty plates.
Covered with the creations of my friend, the chef.
We are all creators here.
Our oasis, a tiny universe.
Molded by our bare hands.
We all choose to be shaped by serenity.
Breathe energy so we may be powerful.
Give joy so we may receive peace.
In the kiss of the Sunday sun,
We discuss how we will walk in the world;
How to hold ourselves and
How to help others.
We patch our cuts,
Fix our wounds.
Nostalgia haunts the corners of our minds,
As we sit and dread
How it's not going to be Sunday soon.
About the Creator
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskarabout 19 hours ago in Feast
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