Sunday

Sunday is your day
because you would wear
your nicest pair of jeans
and cleanest T-shirt
to give your soul to God,
whereas I slept in and ate cereal
in the bright emptiness
of the living room, waiting
to see your golden head
pop through the gate
a smile that would reflect the sun
spread across your face.

I am glad Sunday
is your day.
I had Saturday,
when pancakes and bacon
were the order of the morning
topped in whipped cream
and fruit, and when I could
feed my hunger for both
food and happiness
in the shared brunches
I had to learn not to miss
when I moved away.

And Monday was goodbye.
No one likes Monday anyway.

But I'll leave you a minute
on Sunday -
a minute to smile
at the memory
of a golden head
bouncing through the gate
with the smile of a miniature sun.