saturday
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Saturday doesn’t show up smiling. It comes grinning like a wolf, collecting all the half-finished jobs and promises I left scattered Monday through Friday. The weight of them lands on me the moment I wake. There’s this strange pressure to make Saturday count. Not quite work, not quite rest, more like a holding pen for
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the old woman is making a war in the other room— shoving anything not nailed down, raising more dust than she ever sweeps up. I don’t look. looking is an invitation. and it’s Saturday. and Sunday is coming. “preach it,” I whisper to no one. I hold my phone like it’s a holy book. feel
BB Grey--musings 