Saturdays start with the fading buzz of half a bottle of wine into the deep quiet of the night, with the knowledge borne from conviction and belief that you will get a good well-deserved long sleep, and naturally
you wake too early. You head for a pee to reason this awakening, silence your mind petulantly and dive firmly back to bed, and perhaps that is why
in your dreams, you are with your loved ones, admiring the attic that will (finally) be your room, but suddenly, they are buried under collapsed rafters. Still, you emerge
with the drowsy pride of sleeping past 8 hours, even (oh the audacity!) dozing for a while more. This time, your body seem to have gotten the message, and for the next hour or so, the best you can do is to roll over onto your belly to reach out for some sort of reading material. You watch the
clouds shape-shift in the changing sun rays and shadows. There is not much wind today, and the loud laughter of kids reaches you fearless and clear. Your mind is still restless and planning, but instead of being an ADHD on drugs, it remembers your basil plants that need propagating, remembers your craving for kopi and semi soft-boiled eggs, remembers the perfect fit of salty popcorn and a movie on weekend evenings.
The beauty of Saturdays is that it isn’t so much about the numbers around the clock anymore. You can remember what time really is; this essential void of activity that brings you back to life. You can
listen to your grandma drone on about the increasing storms, you miss your bus stop because you were watching the baby in the seat before you illicit proud smiles from her harried mother, you alight after and wander aimlessly, eyes wide open.
If we forget, who will teach the next generation how bright the world looks after rain?