by Joseph A Farina
when did Sunday mornings become sleepy lazy hours? they were days of worship and mommas early preparations for the afternoon sugu and roast chicken, but only after mass. there we sang our Latin hymns, beat our breasts mia culpa, repeated our kyrie and et cum spiritutuo, floating in prayers like father’s cassock. left with Jesus in our mouths, crossed ourselves with long amens, genuflected to the high altar and walked back to our street. awash in grace we entered our homes to the familiar Sunday aromas of momma’s cuisine. these scenes repeated through the seasons, steadfast we gathered with ourselves our family’s ritual from our island’s genesis keeping tradition, with the new bounty of our new land. tradition faded, ceremony declined liturgy no longer inspired or frightened, our rites of sunday perished as our past no longer held us, assimilated, colourless, without roots to nourish we withered, our sundays wisped away.
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Sauce or Gravy??