THE SEVENTH DAY

You can feel the peaceful silence, on any given Sunday. It is an almost tangible thing. The streets are quite, and all the world is at rest. There is little noise compared to the rest of the week. The streets lie black and unmoved, marred only slightly by the white lines painted on them.

Mid-morning the Church-goers throng into the parking-lots and the pews, and fill up the churches. The corner shop is not busy, and all the other shops are closed. There is a cricket game of little importance on at the stadium, and there are not many spectators that have come to watch it. The petrol stations are also not as busy as they usually are. Last nights drunks are sleeping off their hang-over.

You lie in bed and listen to some music playing on the radio. You day-dream, and lie lazily about, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Even the house is more quite than usual, because the whole town lies silent this morning. Only occasionally one might hear the barking of dogs somewhere in the distance. It is a warm day, and the afternoon will be hot and humid again.

An occasional car or two passes by the window every now-and-then. Only a few pedestrians pass by on the pavement in front of the house during the course of the morning. There is pleasant wind blowing outside that brings a bit of relief to the hot day. The sky is a perfect blue all around, and the sun shines on brightly. There are a lot birds about in the trees, and every so often one of them would take to flight.

The streets remain black and quiet through the long day. The silence settles over the town like an invisible blanket. The birds twittering sound with the sweet song of life in the trees, and on any given Sunday, you can feel the peaceful silence…