It was the weekend; the sun was up, the birds were singing, and my morning was a series of echoes and drumbeats. The drummers stood bedside and they beat their drums slowly.
“Can we watch cartoons?” they asked.
“Will you make breakfast?” they hounded.
“It’s a nice day,” they threatened.
They were up too early because it was Saturday. If it were a school day I would be the one standing over them as they slept warm and oblivious. But it wasn’t a school day. It was the weekend, and they were up early and I had been up late.
I did the same thing to my parents when I was a kid, but even that doesn’t make their internal weekend alarm clock any easier to understand. It is just one more mystery that was lost in transition.
I got up, turned on some Nina Simone, and made some breakfast. I drank some coffee. I took some aspirin.
The boys traded their drumsticks for forks and beats for bites. I stood in the open doorway and felt the cool air on my face. The morning fog rolled off the hills and the sun splashed against my bare feet.
“Soon,” I thought, “summer will be their weekend and their days will melt into pools of glory. I will sit in my office and write about the world that I am missing.”
But for now the weekend is what they have, and they seize it for adventure and freedom. I fall against it and hope it is strong enough to send me recharged and rebooted into another week exactly like the one before it. Only the headlines will change.
Behind me teams are picked, the two of them dividing, competing, and planning ways to best their next opponent. Breakfast was devoured and I have been easily beaten. The day is slightly warmer.
“I’m on your team,” one brother said to the other.
“I know,” he replied.
I stood at the door as they charged the day, and I pitied the foe that made its way past me.