Sundays are sad. They used to be a different kind of unhappy when I was in school, or working a regular job, because they meant the end of weekend fun.
Twelve years ago I moved my elderly parents nearby, so I could be available to them. Sundays became family day. Robby and I would grocery shop in the mornings and the whole day would be spent cooking, visiting, eating, driving them to and from their Independent Living apartment, and cleaning up. In my family of origin, we never ate differently on Sundays, but somehow I fell into the pattern of organizing and making big meals every week – appetizers and drinks, elaborate food, even dessert. Jenn would usually join us, and bring the appetizers. In winter, Robby would make a fire in the fireplace.
Family Sundays were nice, but I sometimes resented the loss of a whole weekend day. After my mother died and as my father became more frail over the next few years, the process became even more complicated.
My father died last month.
Now Sundays are free again. Now we can spend the day however we choose. Now there is a hole at the end of my week.