To tell the truth, I don't mind Mondays. It's time to go back to work. I'm resigned to that fate. And since once I'm at work I'm trapped there for ten hours because there's only the formality of a 80-mile one-way walk home through a frozen wilderness and the likes of Terreton and Mud Lake keeping me there, I'm fine.
But some days, it's Sunday evenings that get me down.
I'm still home, church is over, dinner is done and we're settling into an evening of relaxation. Then it hits me: I can't stay up late tonight. I have to go to be early so I can get up at 4 am to get ready for the bus. Huh. The letdown starts.
Same thing used to happen to my Dad, so that's probably where I get it. He and Mom would sit on the porch behind the morning-glory vines, watching the sun set and listening to the noises of sprinklers, cars, children, and the singing birds. Dad would let out a big sigh. Only one night did we ask him why.
"I have to go to work in the morning," he'd say. This from the man whose life and virtue was work. Rarely missed a day to illness, only missed days when the rain or snow made it too mucky to lay brick, and there were plenty of foul days he went to work anyway, just because that's what you do on Monday mornings. No cases of the Mondays allowed, either.
I have a life much easier than my father's, so I shouldn't get down in the mouth as Sunday evening approaches. But still, the melancholy is there.
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