Sundays

The piano rings in the background while distant rhythmic clicks echo through the pathway and are met with the gentle splash of water running in the bathtub. Distant conversations disappear in the air as I sink into the water while my mind sinks into oblivion. I’m met with a bouquet of fruit on the nose. The bold grape leaves an impression on my palate, a sensation I explore as I take another sip. A smooth touch of oak, easy like Sunday morning. I walk out to find the air smelling like lamb stew. The ambience felt like home. Conversations are accompanied by laughter with loved ones, affirming the love that keeps us together. The tenderness of their voices caresses my soul, and my mind returns. My thoughts quietly disappear, and we sit and enjoy the comfortable silence while the piano’s keys remain hidden behind my eardrums. I’m convinced Sundays smell like the fresh and grassy distinct aromas of herbs. I’m convinced Sundays are days of leisure, dreams, and possibilities. But when all is said and done, I’m convinced Sundays remind me that everything else doesn’t matter.

~ Shantey Moabelo