Finding Sunday Morning

“Where are you going?”
An expanse of green filtered the golden yellow light of sunrise, the morning dew reflecting rainbows on windows of parked cars and drive-by delis. Bayview area early 6:45 .

“I’m going to find Sunday morning,” said an old man stopping to catch a breath. He was running on the concrete pavement instead of joining the early joggers trampling the soft Bermuda fields.

“ Sunday morning?” asked the young man with a half-smile. “ What’s wrong with today’s?”
“ But today is Saturday.”
“ Yes, I know,” quipped the young man suppressing a laugh, “ I’m a businessman, you see, it’s my business to know what day it is or I’ll miss work, and if I miss work my family goes hungry.”
The old man looked at him in an odd way. He was old in all corners of appearance, except his eyes. His breathing spoke of miles and miles of road behind him but his knees held a pride the young man could not understand. A code, perhaps.

“Saturday morning is for rest,” replied the old man at length. “ It is beautiful but it must rest.”
“What about Monday?”
“Monday morning is for work.”
“And Tuesday?”
“Tuesday morning is for perseverance.”
“And Wednesday?”
“Wednesday is for pride.”
“Thursday?”
“For hope.”
“Friday?”
“For expectations and fulfillment.”

The young man was baffled by the meaning of the replies. He only meant not to take the queries seriously. Obviously the old man is not drunk for he speaks the syntax of sobriety. Too sober. No one can be too sober this early. Saturday morning.

“I must get going my boy,” the old man started. “I woke up and she was gone Sunday Morning.”
Slowly he got up and smiled then turned his face towards the road, the soft sea breeze blowing silver white strands of hair. Purpose filled a pose of passion in so frail a body, yet the struggle is something as beautiful seen only in youth of meaning.

The young man finished his laps around the park before turning his way towards home. He felt lighter than usual. Endorphins, said his physical therapist, the neurotransmitter that makes happiness in man. If only they come in bottles.

“So how was your jogging?” asked his wife at the breakfast table.
“Surreal. Can I ask you a question?” he hesitated, but went on. “What’s with Sunday morning?”
“You mean you don’t know?”

He expected his wife to be baffled or at least surprised at the inappropriateness of the question. Was it in the daily papers? Maybe he was too busy not listening. He found himself telling his wife about the strange encounter at Bayview early 6:45 . No, he found himself telling a fairytale to his 5 yr old daughter, sparking her young imagination to life, about life. He found himself looking at the youthful face of his wife, S_______, remembering her laugh that night on the giant ferris wheel in a faraway kingdom, just her and the stars behind her. He saw a glimpse of sunrise bathing the green foliage with golden yellow light, almost forgotten. Where are you going?

“Dearest, Sunday Morning is for Love.”