Beyond Hell : Forum : Sunday is Gloomy


Sunday is Gloomy

12 Years Ago


  My steps are quiet throughout the house. I barely make a sound. As if I don’t want to disturb something, the air that’s as still as a lake and if I were to indulge it, the ripples would widen and I would break. So I push my feet on the linoleum, like you were in the next room reading, and I wouldn’t want to disturb. Warm coffee in my hands feels warmer than my own blood, perhaps that is why it brings me some degree of solace all these sleepless hours. The warmth is really the only thing I care about, I pull the cup tighter to my chest, like holding you. I can still see the little flowers on your casket. Dressing as it has all who came before you, dressed with such frailty,  the symbol of transition. To remind us how fragile life is, how soon it’s over and then you leave me here, remembering only those beautiful little flowers that are supposed to comfort the aggrieved, but only remind us that they were picked as well. They too will go where the black coach of sorrow has taken you. And I stood there thinking how the angels have no thought of ever returning you. I looked up to the sky, as if that is where Heaven hides and cursed them, but for a moment. And then issued my apology. My offering. And what would the angels say to that then? Would they be angry if I allowed myself to think of joining you? Why did they ever have funerals on Sundays? Gloomy Sundays. I watch my slippers leave the tight white linoleum, and find some refuge on our living room carpet, softer and more yielding. The lights hang low, the shadows are my companions. We sit and share and pretend not to know what kind of day it is. The caress of the lazyboy reminds me of the way you held me, of the way you’ll hold me again. What can keep me from caressing you? In death you are mine again. And it will be a blessing that I get to share with you, in that last breath, I’ll be the one blessing you.  
Dreaming! I say to myself, eyes wide as I waken to stare at the darkened ceiling with you warm beside me. I want to laugh at the audacity of this new dream, death is no dream I hear, like an echo in my thoughts. I feel the contours of our sheets and remind myself I am not asleep. You are still, silent slumber meets you and I remember with each second I remember that you are yet far from me, though as close as my hand..I reach out to touch you where you lay, but you pull away as usual. As if your subconcious knows my aim, as if you will your body to move away even in sleep. I begin to feel the warmth of my tears, thinking that I should reach farther, make you take my hand where the soft light touches your smooth skin. But I think the better of it and let you lie there, motionless. I listen for a brief moment, intending to listen to the pulse of your breath. I pull the warm sheets tighter against me, watching the shadows caress the ceiling, only to bitterly smile remembering that it’s Sunday, gloomy Sunday.
(This original poem, and inspiration for the piece. This is not the one that became the song by Billy Holiday which was censored to make it super happy (ie. no i was just dreaming, you didn't die...haha, just kidding). I dislike censorship, and thought the added lyrics were an affront to the original poem (in hungarian), thus thought i would play with the idea of waking up, but with a slight twist), the poem:
Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless Little white flowers will never awaken you Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you Angels have no thought of ever returning you Would they be angry if I thought of joining you? Gloomy Sunday.   Gloomy is Sunday; with shadows I spend it all My heart and I have decided to end it all Soon there’ll be candles and prayers that are sad I know Death is no dream, for in death I’m caressing you With the last breath of my soul I’ll be blessing you
Gloomy Sunday.