I spent all of Sunday at home.

By evening it felt like I had done

a lot. This isn’t true, which is fine.

Rest is an achievement.

I spend my Sundays at my parents’.

They’re no longer around,

and the aunt who has taken over

still works as a restaurant manager.

I don’t see her often, just when I have

to open the front door to let her in.

I spend my Sundays away

from where I live alone to be alone

with the memory of company.

That’s not true. I do fine living

selfishly.

I spent this past Sunday on Facebook

in the empty house I grew up in.

My friend Marie kept me company.

This is how I account for my days

in the journals I still keep. I imagine

strangers reading them when I’m long gone,

thinking Marie was a lover, or that

that Martin sure had plenty of friends.

My mother’s name is Maria.

That’s not true. Her second name is Oliva,

and she’s not dead. My father’s elsewhere

and it’s not in Heaven nor that other place

I sometimes think I’ll see him in someday.

Sundays, Mom spends most her time

in church, tending to several things

she’s given importance to. Like prayer,

the collection, the priest. That’s fine.

The WIFI is stronger without her.

And the girl who kept me company

was Margie, not Marie. We planned

several trips to several restaurants

for the coming weeks.

When you free? she asked.

Weekdays in the evenings, and the whole

of Saturday. How about Sunday? she asked.

I have to spend time with family.

- photo by Yến Dương