Sunday

I remember those vintage sundays from a childhood now archaic,

soft as a feathery caress,

or as kisses peppered by drizzles,

soothing as invisible fingers of cool summer breeze wiping perspiring brows at noen.

A blend of leisure and laughter, like coffee and chocolate,

in a steaming cup of mocha latte,

the swirling skirts,

easy banter mythology sitcoms on television watched with reverent delight,

a breakfast to die for,

waking up to magical world of Disney and Tom & Jerry,

literally and old songs hummed, sang aloud or whistled by my papa.

The kitchen was a poetry of aromas,

an altar of alluring flavors and a frenzy of activity,

we indulged in long evening walks when the sun spilled claret on denim skies,

and watched late night movies long past bedtime.

NOW

the Sunday is anorectic and bulimic,

a stench of stressful eructations lingers in its corners,

it is abbreviated,

almost transient,

as it rises lazily,

bleary eyed at noon and gobbles a brunch of mindless noodles,

snatches a few hours of respite before,

Monday blues submerge its chirpy moods and,

it melts away as an icelolly in the heat of apprehension.

© unexpected_baba