Sundays Past

Sunday

As evening falls a whispering

sweet voice is haunting me.

Returning me to days gone by

as I was a boy.

Sitting in the parlor of my childhood.

The piano plays

a hymn of Sunday comfort.

My mother’s small feet

softly pressing the pedals.

Her long hard working fingers

delicate upon the keys.

The children of my parents union

sing as a choir.

Sitting in my armchair

I am transported to childhood.

Aching to see once more

her face so beautiful to me.

Oh mom!

Oh please play it once more!

But my childhood is past,

my manhood in its place.

Drawn by the indelible memories

of time passed.

I weep like a child to go back.