Sunday... (Black and White)

I am back.

McChuills.

I used to come here. Sunday. When I felt all yingy and yangy and yucky. After a night in the Suby. Or the Arches or the Art School. I was with those of ilk. A communal lapse of Catholicism. All seeking forgiveness for sins from nights prior. Imagined or otherwise. If only we knew how much one hour from our week in the Chapel would soothe our wee mammies’ hearts. But it's here we seek penance. Black, black, black and then white. We glugged that drink back with our eyes closed. And when they open. Forgiveness. Rationale. No need for penance. The music is soulful and whole. You can see in your mind the dancing that once accompanied these old songs. In a dance hall down the road. Love was found here. Most sparked brightly then soured. Some blossomed and flew. Children run the Glasgow streets. Born from love that began over cold pints in these corners. Mates and colleagues. Lunch time to kicking oot time. Brothers and sisters, diary dates met. Fathers first pints with sons. Son's last pint with fathers. In here. It all happened in here. And now I am back. Back here with my son. He wants my phone and cares little for the emotional pull this place has on me. He'll come here with his own friends one day. At least, I hope he does. I stay for a while longer. An older man than I'd ever thought I'd be. The black and white falls with the same glorious ease. I wish it was a long-gone Sunday, but those times aren’t coming back. As I leave, I notice two old ace faces. Keeping the place sharp. If they remain, so too will the memories. Whatever the game, whatever the song, as the dance goes on, down the old years. I hope I am always welcome here.