By Sinead Armstrong
to rest
or not.
i take a deep breathe
only to feel the sunday air kiss my face.
the streets are emptying
the stores are closing
there is no noise,
no movement,
no life.
“already?”,
i think to myself.
an old man walking his dog
passes me by.
he is preparing for the tumult
of the day ahead
a day where he can’t be in the streets
because of the loudness of hearts
beating against one another
a mother of two
rushes to do her weekly shop.
as her children kick and scream,
i see her sigh.
she walks through the aisle replete with cereals.
through her indecision,
through her frustration,
i read her face and it says
“already?”
i think she understands.
i move slowly,
deliberately.
i look up at the sky,
my hands pressed together
and pray the day succumbs to my stillness.
if i do nothing,
maybe the day will
just wait.
but i can feel the space in between
come to a close.
the week ahead waits
like an unopened letter.
“try harder”
they say
“wake earlier and
you’ll be fine.”
but my melancholy sets on sunday’s sun,
and i don’t know what she will bring me tomorrow.
so for now,
i butter my toast
and pretend she has not dipped
just yet.
there is peace here.
a tranquil oblivion,
on the edge of what was,
and what must be.
i lay there,
in the silence.
before everything begins again,
and i think—
if im quiet enough
maybe the world might forget
to start again.