top of page

when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story

—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,

And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday—


When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,

Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon


Looking off down the long street


To nowhere,


Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation


And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why?

And if-Monday-never-had-to-come—


When you have forgotten that, I say,


And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell,


And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang; And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner,


That is to say, went across the front

room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner


To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles


Or chicken and rice


And salad and rye bread and tea


And chocolate chip cookies—


I say, when you have forgotten that,


When you have forgotten my little presentiment


That the war would be over before they got to you;


And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed,


And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end


Bright bedclothes,


Then gently folded into each other—


When you have, I say, forgotten all that,


Then you may tell,


Then I may believe


You have forgotten me well.


- Gwendolyn Brooks


8 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Comments


bottom of page