Purple Rose

The sky is a purple rose right now as I write.  The birds have just begun to call.  Red sky at morning. . . .  I remember how I dreaded Sundays when I was in college, all the homework I had promised myself I would do when I had the luxury of time on Friday still waiting for me.  It would be put off until evening, usually.  Miserable Sundays of anxiety and guilt.

I guess not much has changed.

And one wonders where the hours of the weekend so anticipated went.  What goblin of time consumed them?  I did none of the things I intended to do.  Maybe a few, but not the right ones.  And I envy you.  You have done the things I missed--Friday night drinks with friends at a small cafe or Irish pub, dinner with someone you love or hope to.  Saturday Farmer's Market and shopping for decorative items you do not need but want, things that you will be glad you bought when all the practical stuff has long been forgotten.  A late Saturday night that wasn't supposed to be but happened spontaneously and wonderfully, drinking enough that you promise yourself later today when you actually get up that you won't do that again while remembering the boy or girl across the room who seemed to have a crush on you all night long.  It was nothing.  It was something.  It was enough.

A dark and starry summer's night the last week before school begins-- summer ending a month before autumn begins.

Sunday.  I must help lose the big printer today, help move it from my studio.  Then I will get ready for the dinner I will cook for my mother.