The Art of Sundays

IV

I've recently started to question myself after observing the people walking around the streets as I sat on a bench in the middle of a random old park. Am I really a girl? In fact, am I really a human?

I didn't own a cellphone. I didn't have any makeup products in my bag. I carried books. I drank lots of coffee on a daily basis. I wore baggy clothes. I had an awful sense of humor. I watched old films. I was practically a cave woman.

Were those things really normal for a girl who lived in the present? Was dwelling in the remnants of the past really an ordinary thing?

Different. I guess that's the word for it. Different. We're all so similar in many ways, but somehow different too. I'm starting to question if difference was really a normal thing as what people would perceive it.

We're all different in our own little ways, I guess. But why is it that people start judging you when you're different? Why do they think of you less if you don't live up to the standards of society? Why do they think of you more if you succeed their expectations?

I was still sitting on a bench in the middle of a random old park. It was indeed a Sunday afternoon. Lots of people had just gotten out of Church, most of them really eager to go to places. I still despised the day itself. Sunday. Oh, it was still a cringeworthy word. But I guess I had no choice. I didn't want to rot in hell. At least that's what my mother said.

It was still your typical Sunday though. There were people praying here and there, making the sign of cross. Teenagers were going to confessions. People were having conversations with people. Low maintenance friends were catching up with each other. All in all, everything felt normal. Except for one thing.

The absence of a presence.

Yes. A presence. Not a group of people. But someone.

A guy.

And it felt so weird to be able to feel such an absence. I was the kind of person who didn't care at all. I didn't mind people's business and people didn't mind mine. It was a win-win situation.

But this. It felt weird. It felt different. A little too different, perhaps.

I stood up from the bench, shrugging the unusual feeling off, and carried on walking around the streets of a now sunny Alabama.

My father, who went by the name of Spencer, was an entrepreneur. He was a promoter in the entertainment industry. A local favourite. He marketed and promoted almost all of the concerts/gigs here in Alabama. He was just like your average promoter. Using Guerilla marketing techniques like plastering posters on the street walls, distributing handbills on car windows, and flyposting, he had an average source of income.

What's different about him though was his love for his job. He was just oozing charisma. A natural of sort. People admired him for this. People also disliked him for this. It wasn't the best job in the world to begin with. He could've been a doctor, a movie producer, an architect. He could've been anything he wanted. But his love for music had conquered them all. It was beyond unbelievable.

There was only one thing everyone was certain of. Alabama has never been the same without him. No more posters on street walls, no more first-rate gigs, no more oozing charisma, no more him.

It was quite funny at times now that I've been thinking about it. People went to his funeral. Lots of them. There were more strangers than actual friends. More flowers than prayers. More pity than remorse.