Certain Saturdays, you need to lie in bed all day.
You need to let yourself do such a tremendous thing.
It’s Friday, and you say tomorrow, I’ll lie in bed all day.
It should be so simple.
Now it’s Saturday, your eyes open, and in your periphery is that thing that won’t leave you alone. You know the thing. It buzzes and it lights and it practically tugs your dependent fingers toward it, but you twirl your covers into your fists and shut your eyes tight again.
Your bed asks you to stay, begs that you stay.
With your eyes still shut you remember when your bed was a fort and a cave and a castle and a river and how it felt to be an eight year old in a bed.
You remember when you thought your bed was endless, full of depth and possibility, and everything that would keep you safe.
You remember when lying in your bed was the most special thing you could possibly do in a day, and you think you’d like today to be that sort of special.
Perhaps, this Saturday
The brunch isn’t special
The booze isn’t special
The groceries and laundry and goop in the shower drain aren’t special
It won’t be special to get work done
Or special to get dressed
Or special to let everyone know you’re doing just fine.
Your covers give you a hug. They’re happy you’re back. They thought you might have forgotten your bed from 2001, the one that made you feel invincible.
Your bed will let you go tomorrow; it knows you’re grown up now. But today, Saturday, you’ll stay warm and cuddley.
A good bed is a good bed. And you love this Saturday. And it’s nobody’s business.