It is Saturday and my pockets are full of the sorrows of others. How easily losses come. How steadily we carry them. 

Saturday, a day of steps and landings. Rise and turn and face, rise and turn, these interfaces of lives. The boy being a man, gracious guest, departing. The parents being children, all the closed doors, steady breakage, opening and smoothing the trembling hand, where the comfort of "It's all right. It's all right," means - "I don't know how to fix this, can't make it any better. I am sorry. I am so so sorry." The sister come all this way all this way and I would nest her in listening and conversation that builds something other, thresholds and passages and secret keys. The sheets are clean, the beds made, but what shall we feed her?

It is Saturday and yesterday's mysteries lie out of reach, all the incompletions remain, incomplete, dormant, brewing. And maybe the answers will come to me while I sleep the sleep of attending to something else.

It is Saturday. I am attending to something else.