21 Rhys
21
Rhys
When I was little, I thought Sundays were the best day of the week. I can almost still feel the happiness I felt upon waking. I’d open my eyes and realize I didn’t have school and my dad would be at home all day. I remember the light that would come through the kitchen window in spring, the sound of branches swaying in the garden, the birds chirping, how happy I was as I ate my cereal and Dad read the newspaper across from me, drinking his coffee. Sometimes he’d frown, displeased. Or maybe laugh. Sometimes he’d read a story aloud, especially as I started getting older. I’d try to respond appropriately. Years later, we started arguing, and my mother would grin on the other side of the table; then finally she’d leave. Probably she got bored of listening to us.
It wasn’t just being with family that made Sundays special. It was rather…a feeling. A warm, agreeable, lazy feeling, but lazy in the good sense of the term. I never felt that again, and with the passage of years, it vanished.