Saturday in September

I sleep in late but not too late, a late-for-me 9am, like I was twenty-five.

My husband and I have breakfast together. On the couch, a blanket pillow fortress, we watch cartoons in our pajamas, like we were twelve.

Then, in the halfway house of arms and legs, we make out like we were sixteen.

There’s creamy coffee in the kitchen that makes me think of my mother. Laden with half-and-half and vanilla sugar, a pale caramel color, a daydream of black if that. As if I made it in the South, like her, like I was thirty-five.

The rain is coming down, and I fall into it the way people let their bodies melt to music. I close my eyes, feel everything slacken, like I was fifty.

It’s the perfect Saturday, and there’s nowhere to be, no pressing matters, and I let myself go, like I am coming alive, being and breaking in the silent still morning.


Hi. How’s your Saturday going?

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