I’m thinking of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer and George are discussing days of the week, and if each has a certain feeling, because today, to me, feels like a Saturday.
We’ve been in this new, old house for nearly 5 weeks, and most of that time has felt topsy-turvy to me: nights of jangled sleep, days spent going from one thing to the next (making breakfast on the ancient Chambers gas range which mostly scares me to death, the way it makes that WOOSHing sound when the burners light, or feeding the woodstove with the gnarled and weathered logs Tom gathers from an abandoned slash pile near the house, or doing schoolwork with the kids at at a grey formica table from the 40s with a wobbly leg).
But today the kids slept in, and I fired-up the Chamers range without even flinching, and I placed the square cast-iron frying pan that once belonged to my great-grandmother on the burner and cracked two eggs into it, one for each of the twins, just like I used to do at home.
Just like at home, I watched the yolks open and spread, golden, reminding me of the sun, which is just now filling the meadow with yellow light. The day is opening before us, and I thought, with a happiness that comes from feeling right where you’re supposed to be, Today is Saturday.
I wonder what it holds? What does your Saturday hold?