every saturday morning they come with their machines, buzzing chopping roaring (always much too early for my taste, thank you); it is like clockwork ticking off another week, living here. in the minutes it takes to open these reluctant eyes i go skipping down the the intervals, connected to form a path through the recent past, a collection of annoying golden mornings running together and suddenly sweeter than i can bear to remember. it is the sensation of continuity, of waking knowing nothing's changed, even when that means what it's meant here, kind of a cozy blanket of stifling hopeless hurtful security. it is a weekend beginning the same as the hundred or is it hundred fifty before it in a life that's changed too often but not enough.
change. of course it is for the better but right now right this minute that doesn't matter, not when i'm sitting here and on just one of these two suddenly shaky hands i can count the number of times i'll be openening my reluctant eyes to this familiar yellow light as my sleepy head fills with grumpy thoughts and fights the noise and loses and my son comes bouncing through the room all laughing energy and against my will a quiet cheer rises through the raucous cacophony of the gardeners and their machines and i think i would endure a hell you cannot imagine if that hell meant i wasn't losing the rudely beautiful awakenings that are saturday mornings.
