Sundays were our day. Mike and me. Together, all day.  We'd get up in the morning and usually lounge around watching television. Most times, something on the History Channel. He loved the History Channel. Whether it was theories about the Kennedy assassination or the history of the hammer, he would watch it. I haven't been able to watch the History Channel since April, but I don't really need to know how the #2 pencil came to be. After a little History Channel, one of us would mention food. We'd discuss where we were going to eat, which was pointless. We ate the same place almost every Sunday morning. So we would finally get in the shower and get dressed. We'd head on down to the Doubletree Hotel on the river. That was our place. In the warmer months, we'd walk. It wasn't very far for us. We'd take our time strolling down there. Finding humor in buildings we passed or people we saw. Stopping every so often to give each other a kiss and say I love you. Then it was time for a little breakfast. We would talk. We would laugh. Usually reliving something funny that happened to us there. Like the Sunday morning when the dining room was filled with hotel guests and locals out for brunch after church and Mike decides he needs to squeak out a . . . umm. . . how can I put this delicately . . . a fart, ok? He ripped one. After, we joked it was so loud that it shook the windows that overlook the river. When it happened though, instantly, his face turned beet red. I tried desperately to contain my laughter, but I lost it. I was laughing so hard I had tears rolling down my face. I'm sure the "blue-hairs" heard it but, to their credit, didn't even flinch. Sometimes a Bloody Mary and football would follow in the lounge at the Doubletree. Other times, we'd walk down Water Street and go to the Waterfall Park. We'd sit on the benches and look out over the river. Who knows what we would talk about. Sometimes it would be the Theatre. Sometimes football. Other times just "idle chit-chat", only with us, it was deeper than "idle". We could entertain each other like no other. It didn't matter what we were talking about. Many times we'd make up conversations that the people around us were having. Our creative juices were always flowing. We'd usually end up at the Atrium for a snack and eventually make our way to one of our favorite watering holes, watching whatever sporting event happened to be on that day. Mike would watch Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson, while I read the local newspaper. Then we'd tackle the crossword puzzle together, limiting ourselves to only a couple of "cheats" per puzzle. Mike would try to enlist the help of whomever was around us. He had such a great way with people. Finally, we'd end the evening with a light dinner and then head home early so I could get rested up for my Monday morning at work. We'd lay in bed, watching television (probably the History Channel again), just being together. Since Mike's death, I've been able to force myself to go to those places we frequented. I was even able to go to Old City Hall - where he proposed and where we had dinner the evening of our wedding - although I had to step outside both times I was there to catch my breath and stop myself from crying. However, Sundays haven't been the same. I haven't been able to drag myself downtown on Sundays, not once this summer. Some things are just easier than others I suppose. Mike was everything to me. People talk about how important it is to love your significant other. I can't disagree. But even as important, if not more important, is being able to have your significant other as your best friend and your companion. Mike was both of those to me. Everything I ever did involved him. Which, I think, is why sometimes I feel so alone. But I wouldn't have traded it for anything in this world. I was in love with my best friend and he was the person I wanted to be with, always. Alot of times I hear of people talking about "Sunday Funday". Mike was my Sunday Funday. Without him, Sundays are just dreary, lonely days where I try to find things to occupy my time so I can stop my mind from thinking. Since he died, I have spent 18 Sundays (today is Sunday #19) without him. 18 days of forcing myself to get up. Of trying to come up with things to do that won't remind me of our special day. I think it will get better with time. I hope so anyway. But it's hard to imagine. After all. . . Sundays were our day. |
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