I Was Supposed to Have a Better Weekend

I was supposed to be raking leaves this weekend.

   

I was planning to pull out my work gloves

and the rolls of big

garbage sacks

and we'd fill them

until we were tired enough

that 

around noon

we'd break for lunch

and I'd whip

up some sandwiches

that we'd eat on the deck

with the dogs

at our feet

begging

as usual

for the scraps.

They'd get 

scraps.

It was always

part of the deal

when we ate dinner

on the deck.

I was supposed to 

eat breakfast at the Legion

this weekend.

The works.

As usual.

Eggs and biscuits

and gravy

and bacon and toast

and sausage

and coffee

from some weird

stoneware

mug

that said

Earlham Savings Bank

on the side.

We'd get interrupted

five times in our morning conversation

by the coffee refill lady

doing her volunteer 

best

to make sure

we were caffeinated

and smiling

when we walked

out of the building

with toothpicks

in our teeth.

I was supposed to buy

marshmallows

for the campfire

this weekend.

Up there on the hill

where my Chuck sleeps

we were supposed to

light a fire

as the evening grew cooler

and the sun set behind the hill.

I had blankets 

in the studio

just for nights like this.

We'd need them

this weekend.

They say

we'll have frost.

I was supposed

to sing this weekend.

In the car.

On our road trip

on the way to

no where in particular.

With CD's.

Or songs

out of the blue.

That's what you do when

you're hanging with someone

you wear

wrapped around you like

a favorite sweater.

Comfortable.
Warm.

Safe.

The one you'd 

never part with.

Not ever.

I was supposed to 

pull my old sweatshirt 

out of the bottom drawer 

this weekend.

For our walk.

Down the gravel road

with the dogs.

We were

supposed to hear the sound

of neighbors

laughing

and enjoying the weekend.

We were supposed to 

look at the moon

and maybe

even wish upon a star.

We were

supposed to fall asleep

halfway into

The Hobbit

this weekend.

After I'd stolen

the best bite

from your toast.

After we'd laughed

remembering

the back-up noise

you made

every time Chuck

threw it into reverse

and left the bedside

to find his favorite spot for the night.

And I was supposed

to wake up

this weekend

with

my happy head

buried

in the clouds

and the planets

and the stars

just after it got light.

I was supposed to

have a better weekend

than this one.

One

I'd spend

lots of time

wondering

just how on earth

I got so

lucky.