You would take one look at my family and think we all hate each other. Our awkwardly forced hugs and cruel jokes cast a silhouette over the landscape of our truly complex relationship. Sunday’s are sacred. Well, they were. Sunday’s aren’t Sunday’s without Sally. Without her cursing at the Steelers game and cooking kielbasa, the final day of the weekend is simply a dull waiting period before an even duller Monday. Now, sitting around a table munching on baked goods conversing about our lives and the latest family gossip is nothing more than a memory. First, it was Covid. Our days of meeting were cut short, but eventually, this period would come to an end. At least, I thought it would. Sunday’s drove Sally like Sally drove Sunday’s. Over a short period of time, our days with her became numbered. I’ll never get the chance to drive down my childhood road and know that Sally is sitting there on her spot on the couch in the window paned home her husband made. By now, her couch is gone along with her Terrible Towels and “I Love Grandma” Christmas gifts. Her house is bare except for a few lingering boxes and the memories, good and bad, of that house and her impact. I remember being younger trying to avoid what seemed like a wasted day around a table, but presently, I would give anything to get back that time. Never did I realize her impact until she was gone. That was the last time we met. It was like the finale to a decade long show. The whole cast came together to morn and ending of an era in their lives they will never forget. After all, Sunday will always be Sally’s at least to us.