I sit silently in a room lit only by fading sunlight, looking at an old man who, in youth, sailed off to war. A man who would always be busy at some activity is now content to read the headlines in the newspaper and take a nap. Sitting there watching him, I think about days of long ago. I recall Sunday mornings in this house when I was a child.
Sunday was a day that had a markedly different feel to it. That day was different than the other days of the week. The house was the same every other day of the week. It had the same house number on it and was located on the same street. The view out of the window seemed to be the same. So what was it that made it feel special on that day?
For one thing, the very fact that dad was at the breakfast table made it special. The other six days of the week found him already at work in the early morning hours long before I awoke. I would sometimes hear him kiss my mother goodbye. Then he would arrive many long hours later and she would greet him at the door with a big welcome-home kiss.
But Sunday, yes, Sunday was indeed special. That was the day he did not have to go to work. It was the day that he could relax and read the newspaper. It was a day when he would stroll down the street and chat with the old men who would be sitting out in the front garden idling the day away. Sometimes I would walk with him.
I remember one of the older men showing him the tomato plants which he had started from seed under glass in early spring. That was something the old gardener took great pride in. He knew that they would produce beautiful tomatoes which he would share with his friends. Local news was often a big topic, and baseball. You could almost count on the conversations turning to baseball in springtime.
The sound in the house was also different on Sunday. It was the day that the stereo was his. That was the day that he chose the music. Sunday was the day for fine classical music or light jazz. On Sunday, the world had a special sound. Those notes still ring in my mind as I remember.
The aroma in the house was also different on Sunday. That day my mom did her really special cooking. I guess that was her way of rewarding her husband for his hard work. It was a day for a glass of red wine and family conversation. We sat as a family, gathered together in the dining room for a nice noon meal.
The neighborhood was very quiet on Sunday. There were no sounds of children playing. Friends of mine were not to be found on Sunday. I guess each family had a similar ritual of spending that day together in that era. As I think about Sunday, I wonder if it really was all that special. I mean, was it really the way I remember it? Or is it perhaps just a shadow of the past, something which my mind created? Could Sunday really have been as good as I remember it?
Those days seem so far away and yet in my memory they remain as close as the next heartbeat. With the passage of time, memories seem to become more pleasurable. They are my security. A bond to the past. They have a way of removing the uncertainties and sorrows of life today, which as wolves at the door on a cold winter night, are never very far off.
I remember a garden of vegetables and men speaking of baseball. I remember being a child and doing the things that children do. But more than anything else, I remember Sunday. Yes, Sunday really was a special day.
– Michael Seyfried
“Sunday Was a Special Day” is from the collection Memories of Yesteryear, by Michael Seyfried.