Free Sunday

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For the first Sunday since July, I have not been toiling at work serving the public masses in their need for the newest video-game experience, and I’m having that airy-fairy feeling where my conception of what day it is has disappeared from my senses. All day I’ve been met by moments of questioning what day it is, and what time, and pondering the distinct possibility I should in fact have hauled my rear into work. Instead, I met with friends, drank copious amounts of sweet beverages, and lolled about in the cold sunlight. Even now I wonder, did I dream a day by night, and have I woken early now in preparation for work.

The morning was quiet; I think this is usual for a Sunday at the centre, but I am never here to enjoy the serenity of it. I dwell below the cafe kitchen, down the corridor from the office, and just a wall away from the basement kitchen as well, and so weekdays are a chorus of footfalls, phones-ringing, preparing sog, nitter-natter from casual meetings in the hall, and the occasional thud of someone dropping a tin upstairs. Little disrupts the still air on Sundays; with no cafe to run and no errands to do, most residents take to a lay-in, or journey to stretches of countryside, and later they meet for a communal meal upstairs. Today the meal had been canceled, and so unfortunately I didn’t get to take part, but still that meant I had an entire day without interruption to do with as I pleased.

I was out reveling in the daylight, grateful the day had blessed me with pleasant weather, about to wander the beauty of central park, when I received a phone-call from Andreas asking me to a meet-up in town. Having already agreed to a later meeting with Anna, I promptly accepted. Sundays seem to be the only day most people are able to do such things, and, as aforementioned, this is a time I am always ordered to retail. Enduring long periods of time without seeing people if difficult, and so a day in which to greet them, talk to them, feel secure with them, is a blessing not to be missed.

Andreas and his boyfriend and his acquaintance, met me at a table outside the coffee-house, where the winter still lingered half-heartedly in the atmosphere, and the wind picked up. Ordering a banana-milkshake only served to escalate how cold it had become and we moved indoors again. Mostly it’s the wind which chills the air, in the spots of still sunlight, the world is touched by the promise of summer, but for now the winds spill frost, and we are forced to keep moving or stay inside. We spoke of politics and of troubles, and of the awful events occurring in Japan. The screens at the coffee-house displayed images of the disaster on the news, visions of cars being swept away by water, as easily as leaves, and of houses floors deep in floods, with trapped citizens on upper-floors waving bedsheets out the windows to catch the attention of aid. It seems impossible that while I reveled in an afternoon not occupied by my normal activities, others in the same situation feared for their lives, and pondered how to start scraping the shards of the lives together again.

Later I met with Anna; someone who I worry I am becoming distant from. After a beverage, we walked to the hoe, and we walked down to the park in the hopes of attaining time on some swings, but children frolicked around the nearest playground, and instead we took a fairy-path back up to the main street. Yes, a fairy-path. Behind the playground, through a secret-garden gate is a small play-area arranged to appear as a forest dwelling for fairies, and is occupied by a wooden tower, and a tree carved with tiny windows and doors. Rows of trees separate the area from the park, but via the back gate they thin to single scattered trees, and a carved wooden snake awaits beside the last tree, but the path continues behind a green. We saw the cherry-blossems in bloom along the hill leading to the hoe, and the clusters of daffodils around the greenery, late to bloom this year. And the evening remained light until well past six-o’clock, and the mornings are bright behind the curtains as early as seven, and I can see the world becoming spring, but it is not there yet.



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