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Arn HeartI’m at the top of Life’s hill now,
perched on the precipice
ready to begin my inevitable rush
through old age,
marking my descent
by the passing Saturdays,
my favorite day of the week.
My favorite time with you.

Rising just a bit later
to the smell of brewing coffee
and a ginger snap or two;
sitting with you, side by side
in our chairs in the living room
like Edith and Archie Bunker,
you reading your paper,
me working in my Saturday journal,
sometimes talking together,
or reading a book to one another.

Nothing usually planned except
you mowing the lawn in the warm months,
or seeking that always illusive hobby
in the off season;
me cooking bacon and eggs for lunch;
the rest of the day uncommitted
stretching out before us
like one of Bilbo’s adventures.

These are the times I am
content, at peace, at one with you.
And I wonder every weekend now
how many more Saturdays
will we have together?
I wish with my whole being
that everyday for the rest of our lives
could be Saturdays.

At the bottom of the hill
I don’t want to leave you here
sitting all alone
with your coffee and cookies,
no one to talk to,
no one to make plans for the day with.
But neither do I want to stay if you are gone.
Saturdays would never be the same
without you here.

Saturdays with you are such a joy,
but they scare the crap out of me, too.