Sunday, Sunday

Daphne Confar, George thought today was Sunday, 2012 courtesy William Scott Gallery

Daphne Confar, George thought today was Sunday, 2012 courtesy William Scott Gallery

George thought today was a Sunday.

Sunday’s were his favorite days after all. He waited in the lobby for the church van to come pick him up and deliver him to Sunday School. Free coffee and donuts. The ladies smiled at his jokes.

He could belt out the hymns. A mighty fortress is our God. . . Fractured light from stained glass windows colored his hands holding the hymnal open. He could’ve sung in the choir behind that preacher if he’d put his mind to it. People complimented his strong singing voice.

He enjoyed meet-and-greet too, liked greeting all the visitors.  Sometimes he felt odd when some seemed familiar and knew his name before he introduced himself. That lost little fog would soon lift as they got to talking.

He turned to his right, grinned and shook the hand of the attractive lady just seated. Her eyes took him in, searching, tender. Her soft hand and the smell of rosemary and mint.

“I’m your wife George,” she said.

“But I’m not married.”  George felt he was standing on a ladder missing the last rung. Wobbled in a low-grade panic of  toes reaching for the last step, foot paddling the air, searching.

“I gave you that gold tie for our 40th wedding anniversary. It looks so handsome with your navy blazer.”

He peered out the window, following the light posts down the street. He didn’t see the van. George started to think today was not a Sunday. He rocked the squeaky pink recliner for several minutes longer. The van did not come. An orderly in sneakers turned the corner.

“George, it’s Thursday. You can wait in the lobby every morning but you have to count six days between Sundays. Now let’s go get you changed.”