The Last Sunday of the Month
On the last Sunday of every month
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The Last Sunday of the Month
For years, the last Sunday of the month worked the same way in that house. The husband took the afternoon train into the city to hear a band. Almost nobody around them had heard of it. The poster stayed home by the phone. The first call came from the back of the room, half shouted, about how good the band had been. The second call said which train to meet at the station. El, the dog, knew the sound of the keys before anyone touched the door.
Sunday was also the end of the poster's working week, which is the reason the husband did the cooking on all the other Sundays. Those dinners are remembered in the same paragraph as the trains.
El died earlier this year. The husband is gone too. What remains is a monthly appointment with nobody at the other end of it, written out in Sunday's is not the same anymore it's so sad... and closed with the line that carries the whole post: "Miss my husband and our dog so very much."
The Last Sunday of the Month is the ballad that came out of it. Piano and voice hold the first verse alone. Strings and light percussion arrive with the first chorus and step back again; the second pre-chorus is nearly empty, the bridge is bare, and the last chorus opens wider than any before it before the piano is left by itself.
The song keeps the phone in the poster's hand and refuses to put it down:
It's the last Sunday of the month and nobody's coming home.
Play it on a Sunday evening, late enough that the week has already ended. It is for anyone who still keeps something ready — the keys, the porch light, a place at the table — for a person who is not coming back to use it.
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