SUNDAY
for Annie Castledine

   I am coming to fear Sundays, the way everything empties out, the way the day turns into a bank of leaves outside the window, leaves and a small slice of sky, usually clouds, today gray clouds, bird sounds, the sounds of wind, the way I drift out of this room so carefully assembled, the cut flowers in their vases, the painting of the cows in their gilt frame, the green tile beneath the picture, the curving pink flowers that make up the tile face, the blue ceramic vase at one end of the mantel, the orange lilies opening hungrily at the other, the jewelled creatures carefully arranged around the mirror that reflects nothing, only the closed doors of the small cabinets above the closets. The slow drift toward the window, beyond the human things, the cut flowers, the jewelry, the little jewelled bat suspended from the top of the mirror, himself reflected in it, the daisies on the nightstand, all these things like anchors, all these things I grab on to as I try not to float out through the windowpanes into the trees, into the leaves, as I try not to look back: is it rain, spattering the windows, what am I unhappy about? Why wonder how many Sunday rooms are filled with Sunday women wondering how many other women hide in their Sunday rooms, afraid to go out, or unafraid, but too tired to make the effort; after all, they've made the effort so many times, and what comes of it? You can drown on Sunday, its deep water, you make the effort and on Monday you're washed up on the shore, still alive, but by Tuesday, you're beginning to think, tomorrow is the middle of the week, Wednesday, Thursday is almost the end of the week, already Sunday is casting its shadow.

   All those dreaded Sundays when the children were home, when they had to be entertained, when they had to be dosed with baby aspirin, when they had to be carried through the house, crying, always crying, while you tried to think through what you would say when you got to work on Monday, and was it best to drive to work on Monday and leave later, or was it best to leave earlier and take the bus and get a seat and finish your work? And wasn't it wonderful how no one could ring you on the bus and wasn't the bus your safe haven and wasn't life like a wasp's nest, wasps everywhere, and wasn't it wonderful how the bus windows locked tight and no one could call you, no one could find you, no one knew where you were. Wasn't it wonderful, the peace of the bus, those strange glinting moments when you became once more yourself, when you began to believe you might once more remember what you were, when it seemed such a fine idea to remember what you were, when it seemed you were so completely erased by daily life, when you didn't realize because you didn't have a chance to realize, how much you loved the small crying children, the heat rising in waves from their little bodies, how much you loved the husband who shouted at you until you shouted back, the dog who jumped up when you came in and pinned you to the wall, he was such a tall dog. In the middle of it all, the phone ringing, a pot on the stove boiling over, your mother complaining you never called her, why didn't you call your brother, he was so unhappy, who did you have but each other, the housekeeper going by singing her hymns, softly, as she always sang when she was unhappy, what was she unhappy about now, such a bad sign, her singing, almost as bad as her ironing, how she ironed everything, clothes that dripped dry, that were never meant to be ironed, days she sang as she ironed, those were the worst, was she thinking of leaving, and what would you do without her, what would the children do without her, safer to ask that than admit how your own life depended on her, how disgraceful, a married woman, the mother of two, so dependent on her housekeeper, but she wasn't a housekeeper, was she, no the secret was, she had become your mother. If you lived long enough, you got what you wanted. Now you had the mother you'd wished for, the bell ringing, the children from the house next door coming in to play, your own children going out to play, tying shoelaces, fastening snaps under the chin, what a chaos of tasks was Sunday, and now the radio on in one room, the t.v. in another, until these voices, these faces that mean nothing to you begin to claw at your skin.

   First the television shut off, then the radio, and finally it is only the trees outside the window, their thick green leaves heavy with a summer that has yet to push through, but it's in the leaves, those thick leaves that soon will release the summer like pollen, the trees, the sky, nothing human beyond the window. How did it happen, what did you want time for, how did you become the oldest, the only one left, why do we never know what we want when we have it, Sundays, the empty days in this room menaced by leaves and a small strip of sky, leaves lashed by the wind, but in all the other houses (so you tell yourself), mothers with their children, cooking Sunday dinners, feeding children in high chairs, husbands looking up, startled, is this the woman they married? Are these the children they wanted? Will it be a walk to the playground and the monkey bars or a walk to the canal with the ducks? Is it too cold for a walk at all, should they all get in the car and see Grandma and Grandpa? The day is already half- over, tomorrow work begins again, how fast Sunday goes, and it's clouding over, misty, there's a mist in the trees, that mist in the big oak, drifting through like a woman in a long gown. He'd tell his wife, look at that mist drifting through the tree like a woman in a long white gown but she's spooning carrots into the baby's mouth. Why carrots, why spinach, they make such a mess, why not corn, it's so much easier to wash out of their clothes and their bibs, but look at that woman drifting through the trees. He should try to tell her, who is she, why is she drifting, her hand has caught on a branch or her hem has, she's stopped moving, at least she's not moving now, but the wind's picked up, she's drifting through the tree, out of the tree, she's gone, part of the cloud, the thin scarf of mist over the grass. Wonderful, these images that come to you while you're watching your wife spoon carrots into the baby's mouth, his chin dripping stalactites of carrots and peas, they don't mean anything, but the day will come when you'll have the time to contemplate the window and what lies beyond it, when you'll have time to look inward and trace the clouds that drift there, there's so much, is there ever enough time to look at it all, carefully and with appreciation, so much happens that should be treasured, that's pushed aside, watch out, don't cross the street yet, a car's coming, are we out of milk, how can we be out of milk, I'll go for the milk, I don't mind if it's raining. The sound of the raindrops on the car roof, the eel-like trail of rain making its way down the windshield, the sudden flash of lightning, the bright silver of the lightning, the dark silver of the sky, who should you tell about it, don't tell anyone about it, keep something for yourself, you have no time to notice things precious enough to keep to yourself, keep this dark silver sky, so much, so much, enough to shame you, to make you feel small, hopeless, a creature on whom the world is wasted. If only you had more time, and now you have it, now I have it, and Sundays are dreadful, why did I not prepare for Sundays, why didn't I see the coming calm? After all, I lived so long in the center of the storm, this is what I wanted, isn't this what I wanted, time to reflect, and more time to reflect, time to reflect upon my reflections.

   How we empty ourselves out, how quickly we empty ourselves out, feeding ourselves bits and pieces of the past as if to ravenous babies, how fast the cupboards grow bare. There was a time boxes fell on our heads when we opened doors, there wasn't enough room on the shelves. Every time we turn around, everything's eaten, gone, why don't we buy enough, instinctively buying just enough for a few days, a week at most, no point in hoarding, in letting things spoil when there's only one, only me, not even one, not really, how did I become so inconsiderable, drifting out through the window like a mist into the tree, asking, why didn't I do things differently, why didn't I know how necessary everything was? How time would disperse me, not even valuable as pollen, it is not human out here, in the trees, in the leaves, a bird screaming. Do I seem more than mist to that bird, and it's Sunday. It can happen that every day is Sunday, I'm rising up through the branches, I'm a mist on Sunday, visible through that man's steamy window, he's looking out at me with something like wonder. He's thinking of telling his wife, look out the window! but he thinks better of it, he'd have to turn from the window, turn back to her and the baby in its chair, and then I rise up further and it's Sunday and then I'm gone.