Sunday Drive

I wind the window down all the way. Now that Sunday lunch in the country to celebrate Pappie's 80th birthday is over I can let the wind have its way with my hair. I'll struggle with the knots later. The wind whips my hair across my eyes and, again, away from my face when I turn my face to the wind.

Sunday Drives are a luxury. Growing up I didn't realise the wealth we had when we took a Sunday Drive. After our Sunday roast dinner, the Sunday papers read and the dishes done, the afternoon would stretch languidly out in front of us. I don't remember who would suggest the Sunday Drive, Dad or Mom? I do remember I was always keen to go along. The three of us would set out in my father's car. My brothers didn't usually come along. A Sunday Drive wasn't how they enjoyed wiling away their Sunday afternoon.

We drove nowhere in particular. Dad would set a course that would take us out on to the country roads. Mom knitted. I sat at the back and looked out the window. Even now, when we go on road trips, I don't read or occupy myself to pass the time. I just sit and look out the window. I take in the scenery. I let thoughts surface at random. I dream. I rest.

Sundays we would drive there and back to see how far it is: no agenda, no accomplishment and no task. The luxury of time: wealth measured in moments.

It's Sunday afternoon in Africa again.