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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368699" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>It's Almost Sunday Morning</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the summer of 1956, <br>any Saturday at midnight <br>when the moon was full <br>and the stars were bright, <br>you would see Grandma Groth <br>on her front-porch swing<br>waiting for her son, Clarence, <br>still a bachelor at 53, <br>to make it home <br>from the Blind Man's Pub <br>after another evening quaffing <br>steins of Heineken's.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Many times when I was young, <br>I'd be coming home at midnight<br>from another pub just steps behind <br>staggering Clarence. <br>I'd always let him walk ahead <br>and listen to him hum<br>'The Yellow Rose of Texas.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the last Saturday night <br>that Clarence and I came down the street, <br>I didn't see Grandma on her swing.<br>She wasn't waiting to berate him. <br>So far so good, I thought, <br>until, not far from his house, <br>Clarence fell into Mrs. Murphy's hedge.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When I finally got him up, <br>I moved him like a fridge on a dolly <br>down the walk and into his house <br>only to see Grandma, a wraith <br>in a hazy nightgown, swoop <br>into the hallway, screaming <br>and thrashing Clarence with her broom, <br>pausing only to tell me, <br>'Go home to your mother now <br>so you won't be late for Mass. <br>It's almost Sunday morning! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">After that sad night in 1956, <br>I never saw Clarence again, <br>either marching to work in the morning, <br>his lunch pail gallantly swinging, <br>or staggering home at midnight<br>from the Blind Man's Pub.<br>But many a midnight after that, <br>I'd be coming home <br>from the other pub, <br>lunch pail in hand, <br>and I'd see Grandma <br>reigning on her swing, <br>broom in hand, <br>waiting. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tonight, however, many decades later, <br>as I stroll home at midnight, <br>I realize I'm older now than Clarence was <br>the night he disappeared <br>and even though Grandma's dead, <br>I can still see her regal on that swing, <br>broom in hand, waiting, <br>and so I give her a big wave, <br>hoping to hear one more time, <br>'Go home to your mother now <br>so you won't be late for Mass. <br>It's almost Sunday morning! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Donal+Mahoney">Donal Mahoney</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368699" data-title="It's Almost Sunday Morning de Donal Mahoney" data-description="In the summer of 1956, 
any Saturday at midnight 
when the moon was full 
and the stars were bright, 
you would see Grandma Groth 
on her front-porch swing
waiting for her son, Clarence, 
still a bachelor at 53, 
to make it home 
from the Blind Ma..."></div>
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