Saturday mornings are for not making up the bed, and for drinking hot black coffee as slowly as I want. Saturday mornings are for carving out a sand fort to keep out the ocean called "I have to give a sermon tomorrow." Saturday mornings are for children with their hair standing up and sleep still in their eyes. They are for having the news on in the background but not listening to the words they are saying. Saturday mornings are for riding a bike in the cold because the sun is out, and for warming bare feet in the sunny spot on the carpet. Saturday mornings are for washing and drying but not for ironing. Saturday mornings are for cinnamon rolls and flannel, but not the tailored flannel suit. Saturday mornings go by too quickly, pushed with a momentum that comes from Somewhere Else, somewhere Not My Idea, leaving me wistful for it before the sun even sets, leaving me curled up on a hidden sofa, scraping the bowl of Saturday Morning like Mama's chocolate cake batter, and holding on to the taste as long as I can.
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