Saturday.
Maybe it was the way the sunlight poured in through the window, the side that wasn’t covered by drab, blue curtain. Or maybe it was the empty room itself. Fashioned neatly, tied together by neatened sofa slipcovers. In any case, the room spoke. Its white walls, filled-in fireplace, and that wooden beam marching across the ceiling in century-old fashion. The room spoke as it never did during the week when it was busy holding inhabitants as they lived through their weekly lives.
But as usual, the room never spoke very long. A sentence or two, perhaps a notable observation. And then it would breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Long exhales inbetween. The exhales were of the contented sort today. Because the curtain on the window was pulled back. A rarity. The day sped by quickly, as Saturdays usually do. And today, the room spoke its peace, that the day went by perhaps too quickly, as some days do. But the curtain remained drawn and soon enough the sun went down.
Main Street’s lights came on and the traffic calmed to its nightly pace. Surprisingly, though, no sirens, no police cruisers or fire trucks or ambulances sped by. To this thought the street sighed contentedly as a car pulled into the driveway outside while the room drew itself to its quiet ways. The front door soon opened and not too long after, the curtain fell across the window.
Saturday will come again in a week. Maybe the curtain will be drawn open again.
All Is Continuity 