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Sundays

 

Sundays

 

I used really look forward to Sundays. My wife & I would head out in the car to places we hadn’t been before. They were to borrow from Wordsworth “golden hours.” My wife was my home. We were super close for years. Despite all her years of illness & the stress it brought upon us, we were the best of friends. No one, as yet, has got to know me as well. I loved her with my whole being. We made the best of the COVID lockdowns. We’d have karaoke nights & special dinners, letter writing ‘competitions,’ lots of silly things, to wind down from our roles as essential workers. We always laughed a lot. We used to laugh ourselves to sleep. I don’t want to air why we split. In fact I don't think it had to happen. Ups & downs are part of any long lasting relationship. Anyway, we did. & so I lost that feeling of home. Sunday night art documentaries. Just the feeling of being accepted & safe at last, after years of trauma. Today I don’t want to be angry. I’m weeping as I write this. A woman’s love is an incredible gift & I cherished it. But my heart is broken & I can’t cope with the cold looks of our anti-intimate community. A world that looks at you as an obstacle. I’m in a lot of pain. Give of take a month or two, in the last year 5 people in my life have died as well as the marriage split. My father’s death followed a month afterwards. I don’t have many friends. I’m very loyal to those I call friends, so the losses are keenly felt. It is an amazing thing to see a face of love looking back at you. Without it, one feels sick. Homesick. Like a young kid on school camp. Like a grade 2 kid’s tummy ache.

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

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