The seventh day

Sunday was always a day of celebration!

My mom made me wear the most beautiful dress, the one intended for special occasions and shoes, were my favorite… a pair of burgundy shiny leather moccasins with tassels.

When I wore them I felt like a princess and I did nothing but stare at them constantly, as if for fear that the magic of that moment would vanish too quickly and make me put on my “everyday” shoes again, as my mom called them.

Then it was the day of visiting relatives and even if I didn’t always want to, I thought of the greedy gift they would give me so, boredom turned into the crunchy sound of Aunt Zina’s chocolate waffle (whom I always called Pina, it was difficult pronounce the two Zs).

Sundays, they tasted good!

At lunch the table was covered with colorful dishes and a scent of tomato sauce came out of the kitchen window, to reach the noses of the neighbors and remind them of the goodness of a hot dish, eaten with its own family.

I grew up in a lucky time, the one that marked the passing of days and every six of them, gave us a magical one.

Today something has changed, I think Sunday has been swallowed up by Monday, because when Saturday arrives… you already start thinking about Monday.

Perhaps because we’ve stopped living it as a privilege, we wear beautiful clothes and shoes every day, we no longer visit relatives and that scent of tomato sauce now tastes like tofu in a pan.

But in your opinion, if we put tomato sauce on top of the tofu, if we at least phoned our family and finally if we stopped chasing time… would Sunday regain its magic?

Because in this case I would gladly slow down my run, to regain possession of those special moments, to remember.