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Sunday
By Stephanie Kemp
Sunday
By Stephanie Kemp
Come out, Come out, Whoever You Were.
55.
Married almost 19.
Two Teenaged Girls locked, loaded, ready to launch, even though this is terrifying.
(Thank God and Everyone Else who helped raise them).
Speaking of God,
It is Sunday.
I once wrote a poem about Sunday but I can’t find it in my old storage boxes because there is too much shit in there. (Mostly pictures from college when I looked jaundiced from drinking too much beer and journals from my Artist’s Way days during my mid-twenties when I looked healthier but had inadvertently morphed into a boy crazy narcissist.) No-one, including me, may ever see or read these things for the rest of my life and/or the future of humanity.
Here is what I remember of the poem:
Sunday is the Day for Rest,
(Or for Prayer, Some say).
Some say you should Call your Mom.*
Some scream, “Go and Play!”
Whatever Sunday means to you,
Live it hard and true.
For far too often, the Other Days,
Decide to say F*#k You.**
I stand by my Poem. Especially in 2023. And I still do all of these Sunday things, even though I can only call my mom in my head and heart now, from a walk, a sleepless night or a quiet sit in the sunshine.
Last night (Saturday is usually pretty good, too - maybe I will write it a poem.), I slept on the couch because Someone was snoring, then didn’t sleep on the couch because Some Canyon Dog was barking maniacally.
In what can only be described as a Sunday Miracle, I am not mad at my Someone and I did not scream at anyone (dog or human) over the balcony through the canyon to Shut the Fuck Up and/or Take Care of Your Dog!
But the real reason I am writing is because my husband and I just had that Lazy Sunday Morning Coffee Conversation About What If One Of Us Dies. We have this conversation every time he goes up on the roof to trim our trees. I hate this for all of the reasons you would imagine, but don’t get me wrong: I would first and foremost be devastated. (We also have this conversation when I insist on driving to or from the mountains in a blizzard - he, too, would first and foremost be devastated.)
But today was a little different. It was clear that I was first and foremost angry that he still goes on the roof (he reminds me that he is 49 and still likes to do it) while he was first and foremost worried that I wouldn’t know where to find all of our passwords. (I remind him that I am 55 and would still prefer to live on a prairie and drive around in a horse and buggy - no passwords required.)
This feels worth noting before our daughters wake up (one hopefully and/or supposedly at her friend’s house, the other in her room finishing her senior thesis - gasp), because we have to get ready for pizza night with our neighbor friends. This is some rare Sunday Excitement because we’re all still socially post-pandemic shaky, sort of like newborn fawns trying to host brunch near a swollen river.
To keep things easy, we are making Bobolis, those little cheating pizza crusts that don’t (even need to!) live in the refrigerator aisle. (You can find them right next to the cheese, pepperonis and sauce that also don’t need to be refrigerated.) This felt a little defeatist to me until I remembered that my husband and I had - by actual choice of our own - hosted a Boboli Making Pizza Party for our Rehearsal Dinner back when we were 30 and 36 year old social superstars and would have first and foremost (and only) been SUPER devastated to lose each other. (On a Side Note and Please Note: We have only ever used toppings from the refrigerated section, no matter our age/s or guests.)
This memory flew me down a Spike Jonz Inspired Tunnel Through My Mind to the two people who threw that long ago pizza party.
Who were getting married the next day.
Who were about to have a baby.
Who couldn’t wait.
For Everything.
I still love those people. Even if one of them will never stop snoring and the other will never learn the passwords.
They are in there.
And Bobolis are GD (even I don’t say or spell that one out loud on Sundays) Delicious.
I hear teenagers!!!
I am going to rest, pray, call my mom and invite those newlyweds to come out and play. After this I might even straighten up the house for our neighbor friends and set up the ping pong table.
I already feel better and can’t wait even for Monday - Friday. (Poems for Everyone!).
I also can’t wait until my husband is off the fucking roof.
(And hope the dog is ok….)
Happy Sunday/s.
*You should call your mom……She probably misses you. Unless/Even if you are an asshole.
**I know I shouldn’t use the F word on Sunday...I just forget sometimes (or need to say it anyway).
55.
Married almost 19.
Two Teenaged Girls locked, loaded, ready to launch, even though this is terrifying.
(Thank God and Everyone Else who helped raise them).
Speaking of God,
It is Sunday.
I once wrote a poem about Sunday but I can’t find it in my old storage boxes because there is too much shit in there. (Mostly pictures from college when I looked jaundiced from drinking too much beer and journals from my Artist’s Way days during my mid-twenties when I looked healthier but had inadvertently morphed into a boy crazy narcissist.) No-one, including me, may ever see or read these things for the rest of my life and/or the future of humanity.
Here is what I remember of the poem:
Sunday is the Day for Rest,
(Or for Prayer, Some say).
Some say you should Call your Mom.*
Some scream, “Go and Play!”
Whatever Sunday means to you,
Live it hard and true.
For far too often, the Other Days,
Decide to say F*#k You.**
I stand by my Poem. Especially in 2023. And I still do all of these Sunday things, even though I can only call my mom in my head and heart now, from a walk, a sleepless night or a quiet sit in the sunshine.
Last night (Saturday is usually pretty good, too - maybe I will write it a poem.), I slept on the couch because Someone was snoring, then didn’t sleep on the couch because Some Canyon Dog was barking maniacally.
In what can only be described as a Sunday Miracle, I am not mad at my Someone and I did not scream at anyone (dog or human) over the balcony through the canyon to Shut the Fuck Up and/or Take Care of Your Dog!
But the real reason I am writing is because my husband and I just had that Lazy Sunday Morning Coffee Conversation About What If One Of Us Dies. We have this conversation every time he goes up on the roof to trim our trees. I hate this for all of the reasons you would imagine, but don’t get me wrong: I would first and foremost be devastated. (We also have this conversation when I insist on driving to or from the mountains in a blizzard - he, too, would first and foremost be devastated.)
But today was a little different. It was clear that I was first and foremost angry that he still goes on the roof (he reminds me that he is 49 and still likes to do it) while he was first and foremost worried that I wouldn’t know where to find all of our passwords. (I remind him that I am 55 and would still prefer to live on a prairie and drive around in a horse and buggy - no passwords required.)
This feels worth noting before our daughters wake up (one hopefully and/or supposedly at her friend’s house, the other in her room finishing her senior thesis - gasp), because we have to get ready for pizza night with our neighbor friends. This is some rare Sunday Excitement because we’re all still socially post-pandemic shaky, sort of like newborn fawns trying to host brunch near a swollen river.
To keep things easy, we are making Bobolis, those little cheating pizza crusts that don’t (even need to!) live in the refrigerator aisle. (You can find them right next to the cheese, pepperonis and sauce that also don’t need to be refrigerated.) This felt a little defeatist to me until I remembered that my husband and I had - by actual choice of our own - hosted a Boboli Making Pizza Party for our Rehearsal Dinner back when we were 30 and 36 year old social superstars and would have first and foremost (and only) been SUPER devastated to lose each other. (On a Side Note and Please Note: We have only ever used toppings from the refrigerated section, no matter our age/s or guests.)
This memory flew me down a Spike Jonz Inspired Tunnel Through My Mind to the two people who threw that long ago pizza party.
Who were getting married the next day.
Who were about to have a baby.
Who couldn’t wait.
For Everything.
I still love those people. Even if one of them will never stop snoring and the other will never learn the passwords.
They are in there.
And Bobolis are GD (even I don’t say or spell that one out loud on Sundays) Delicious.
I hear teenagers!!!
I am going to rest, pray, call my mom and invite those newlyweds to come out and play. After this I might even straighten up the house for our neighbor friends and set up the ping pong table.
I already feel better and can’t wait even for Monday - Friday. (Poems for Everyone!).
I also can’t wait until my husband is off the fucking roof.
(And hope the dog is ok….)
Happy Sunday/s.
*You should call your mom……She probably misses you. Unless/Even if you are an asshole.
**I know I shouldn’t use the F word on Sunday...I just forget sometimes (or need to say it anyway).