The best part of each week nowadays is Friday evening, when he arrives. The worst part of every week is Sunday evening. He leaves.
Growing up, I usually had a sinking feeling in my stomach starting at about dinnertime on Sunday evenings. It would grow as the evening wore on, when I found myself less and less able to have fun, instead finding myself in a deepening melancholy as I realized that my weekend joy was about to end. Or perhaps rather than sensing an end of joy, I instead was focused on the beginning of school, with its associated homework, busyness, and other stresses.
Shifting forward ten years, I have found that all my weekends now end in a similar fashion. My heart begins to sink as Sunday afternoons wear on, ending in the inevitable goodbye as I hug my hubby one last time and wave as he drives the car down the parking lot in the direction of the interstate. I then spend the rest of the evening in a depressive state, thinking about the workweek I have to endure before the next Friday evening comes.
At this point, I only wish that my heart would stop becoming so heavy at the end of every weekend. I have to see him leave every weekend for the next year and a half; that's the reality. I just wish my chest didn't know that reality, so that I could fool myself into moving with a happy heart into each week.
Maybe next weekend's end ...