I Don’t Know Sunday

Photographer: peter bucks | Source: Unsplash

I don’t know Sunday. Sunday doesn’t know me. We have nothing to offer each other. Sunday doesn’t see anything in me. I don’t know how to exist on Sunday — but I can’t stop it from happening. I exist on Sunday, although it seems completely unnecessary.

However, if I forfeit a day of my week, every week for 52 weeks, every year for the rest of my life, I am agreeing to live less. I am agreeing to live less than my husband, my…