Weekends are for adventuring.
Fridays are for laying low,
Rejoicing in a good book, and time off, and longer hugs
Because we’re not in a rush.
Friday nights are for dates.
Out to the movies, dropping popcorn on laps
– and then sleeping early and well.
Saturdays are for 5:30 alarms, and sleepy eyes
Because the ocean is calling.
Climbing into the pickup truck, clutching coffee and squinting at the sun.
Saturdays are for long drives through tiny towns, past blooming peanut farms and their
Neat rows, and rolling over sky-high bridges
Making new friends,
And laughter and storytelling.
Saturdays are for mini golf,
One game now, one fierce game promised later.
Saturdays are for eating the wrong thing for breakfast
– heaping cups of frozen yogurt and candy toppings.
And watching husband thoughtfully chat with strangers as yogurt melts.
Saturdays are for free concerts on the boardwalk,
Rollerblades whizzing by
And short-tall couples strolling in front of you too slow,
Ignoring bike bells ringing.
Saturdays are for the sea gulls and
Low tide, and
Pulsing, tugging waves that build until adrenaline hits,
And kids that scream as they go under always emerge grinning
Because they learned the secret in that wave.
Saturdays are for wishing buoyancy and
Clinging to husband, fighting him but holding tight
Because feet can’t touch the bottom
And salt stings eyes and tastes on lips.
Saturdays are for not caring about how hair looks.
Saturdays are for hand-holding, shoe-holding, making barefoot tracks in sand
And stumbling upon lifeguard championships.
Paddle boards, row boats, flags in the deep, whistles blowing
So many red shorts
And skin tanner than mine.
Saturdays are for fair food and fresh lemonade
And eating powdery funnel cakes as fast as possible.
Saturdays are for sand castles, always.
– with carefully sculpted towers and moats
And the jealous eyes of kids
Because ours stands still when waves hit the barricades.
Saturdays are for run-jumping back into the salty crash of water
Because we can’t stay away.
Saturdays are for muted hazy light and cold toes
And bold not-warm waves grabbing at our things until, in one breath,
One sandal is gone and the towels are soaked
And air is filled with yells and laughter.
Saturdays are for all-you-can-eat seafood buffets
On an outdoor patio, thick with salty breeze.
Crab and lobster and shrimp and oysters
– all fresh, covered in butter, and almost too hot.
Sundays are for rest.
Rest until the alarm, then leaving the cool sheets for
Joyfully loud “A Mighty Fortress is Our God”
And Romans, propped open on sunburned laps.
Sundays are for cracking the laptop open at Starbucks, and watching the
Cold drinks leave water rings on our table.
Sundays are for renting an animated movie
Laying in bed with bright gray daylight streaming in
And finally, pushing out the door with tennis shoes laced up
Because, like the ocean, the trails call us too.
Sundays are for sweaty bike helmets
And whirring wheels on steep hills.
Sundays are for quiet woods and dusty gravelly trails and
Hesitant deer standing as statues.
They were warned by the crickets
And our laughter in the mossy thicket.
Sundays are for wandering padded tall-grass fields and hills at sunset,
Then hopping back on bikes in the golden light and
Whizzing back into the tall silent trees.
Sunday evenings are for racing the red sun back home.
Sunday nights are for chocolate tortes with cherries on top
Eaten in the dim-dark at the kitchen table,
Washed down with a bottle of Gatorade.
Sunday nights are for early bedtimes with yellow-lamp reading.
Sunday nights are for whole rest, because
Our muscles ache and we are filled with leftover smiles and sand memories.
We miss the current and crush of the sea.
But our happiness still shines and our hearts are full,
Because weekends are made for adventuring
– And that’s exactly what we did.
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