He slams the door
To walk outside and continue to grill
And I remember that it's 5 o'clock on Sunday
Prime time for him to be sleeping
I remember all the Sundays when I was little
How I would cry my eyes out
I dreaded the thought of going to school the next day
Because I would have to leave my parents
Particularly, my father
How I would beg for him to come to school with me
Begging because I missed him so much.
I remember the Sunday when I came in carrying a box
When he was slamming the door, when he broke a mug
How I heard him yell and I threw down the box
How I ran into the garage to cry
When he came out and hugged me
And I cried and bawled and hugged him harder than ever before
How these Sundays have changed to doors slamming
To headphones and the grill going
To falling asleep shortly after 5,
How they have not changed in the fact
That I still sometimes cry on Sundays,
Shortly after 5 o'clock.