My husband is very sad that Pascha is over. He sat on the couch last night as the sun set, "watching the last light of Pascha," as he put it, and mournfully saying that he felt like a child at the end of Christmas, surrounded by the toys, wrapping paper and and leftovers, with the future hope of playing with the toys, but the languor of discharged anticipation.
Early this morning, before he had to go to work, I warmed up our leftover Pascha breakfast of pancakes and sausages and we ate it under the twinkly Christmas lights, next to a pineapple and a "bouquet" of freshly dried palms. He was still sad. But he also keeps fervently insisting that it was A Great Pascha. My minor sunburn, tired voice and sore feet sleepily agree.
Working on Bright Monday really is a shame. When I'm the boss, nobody's going to do anything that isn't fun on Bright Monday. We don't celebrate things for long enough in this country. We think we're so carefree, but we really don't know how to party.