Sunday Afternoon Coming Down

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,

I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.

'Cause there's something in a Sunday

That makes a body feel alone.

And there's nothing short a' dying

That's half as lonesome as the sound

Of the sleeping city sidewalk

And Sunday morning coming down.

~ Kris Kristofferson, Sunday Morning Coming Down

There have been times in my life that Sunday mornings have begun as Kris Kristofferson describes them in his song, Sunday Morning Coming Down:

Well, I woke up Sunday
morning

With no way to hold my head that didn't
hurt.

And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't
bad,

So I had one more for
dessert.

Then I fumbled in my closet through my
clothes

And found my cleanest dirty
shirt.

Then I washed my face and combed my
hair

And stumbled down the stairs to meet the
day.

I'd smoked my mind the night
before

With cigarettes and songs I'd been
picking.

But I lit my first and watched a small
kid

Playing with a can that he was
kicking.

Then I walked across the
street

And caught the Sunday smell of someone
frying chicken.

And Lord, it took me back to something
that I'd lost

Somewhere, somehow along the
way.

I remember those nights in college when, together with a few friends, I’d play guitar, chain smoke, and drink whatever was available. The mornings, after the friends had left, or fallen asleep, or passed out, where forlorn moments. Sometimes I'd just wander the tree-lined streets in Lexington looking for something—anything—to eradicate the emptiness I felt.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a morning like that. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night like that, although I will admit there are nights these days when sleep won’t come and I’ve taken my guitar out of my case and played and intoned sad songs. It’s something to do when sleep won’t come and this house feels empty with Alex and me the only ones in it. Of course Alex, being a cat, is nocturnal by nature and he ignores my loneliness as well as me on those occasions.

This afternoon was one of the few afternoons I felt that, as Kristofferson wrote, “there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone.” Maybe it’s the holiday weekend. Or, perhaps, that the street on which I live seems strangely quiet for a warm, spring day. I suppose everyone except me is doing something, somewhere, but not here.

I think I’ll end this blog and take my guitar outside on my deck and play and sing to myself. (Alex is avoiding me since I took him to the vet yesterday and he received three shots). Perhaps I’ll take a beer with me so I can cry into it. Naw! I’m not that far down. But I will play and sing Kristofferson’s Sunday Morning Coming Down and, if I’m out there long enough, maybe his Help Me Make It through the Night, too.