Los Domingos

Sundays are always such sad days;
I always end the afternoon longing for the past;
when one Sunday felt just like another Sunday
like, for example,
waking up later under my mom's watchful eye,
taking a shower and styling my hair with gel
and fixing up my nails;
putting on my tie
and rushing to the friars' mass;
and crossing the Caudal River, seeing it white,
because the coal washers weren’t working.
Helping out at mass
and waiting for the licorice from the Brother Director;
and playing ball or playing handball.
Then, at noon, hand in hand with Dad,
having half a vermouth with olives.
The rosary at three and that smell of incense
that you had to breathe in to keep your spot.
And the afternoon at the movies watching some show
that would make you fly and dream of some unreal sky.
And at night finishing up homework and in bed thinking
that tomorrow will be another day with much less light;
hugging the pillow and dreaming of hearing
that familiar voice saying it’s already eight.