Since we lost Marcel, I too have dreaded Sundays, for the first time in my life.
When I was single, before I met Mr B, in the days post-breakup from a gross ex, on Sundays I was either out and drunk, or too busy recovering from being out and drunk to worry about loneliness. Nicole's reasoning for the name resonated with Mr B, unlike me he'd felt the same dread of Sundays when he was younger and felt like something was missing.
Lately, even when I've had a brilliant week, weekend, even Sunday mornings, Sunday nights have been awful. It's the time I should be laying on the lounge with a 14 kilo snoring hot water bottle on me, no matter the temperature. Mr B should be in the kitchen, conjuring something delicious, while Marcel and I watch some trashy downloads on the laptop, him usually the first to give Mr B a dirty look if he dared make too much noise. I would cop one too if I dared move, because sometimes I would have to readjust when my legs went to sleep. The best times.
Even now, when I well and truly know better, I just had to retype that last sentence in to past tense. I forget the snoring hot water bottle days are over and remember quickly why I'm dreading my Sundays.
I had an awesome day today. Early morning walk and coffee with Mr B, a quick swim, breakfast with my mum who is up for a few days, another swim and reading in the sand, seeing St Vincent at the movies, which was brilliant, eating too much popcorn, then home for an early night. Still the sadness has crept in and my thoughts can't leave my boy.
Having never been one to wish my life away, I just cannot wait for 2014 to be done with. This is the last Sunday of the year and I am willing it to be over. I think of Nicole when I think that there will be better Sundays ahead.