Kimberlee K.

There is always something special about a three-day weekend.

Though few and far between on a typical work schedule, they bring two special weeks in a row: a three-day weekend followed by a four-day work week.

Needless to say, Memorial Day was already shiny before it started.

I woke up that Monday lazy, without hurry, without work, and I went for a walk.

I took my “long route” and looked for the color blue—one of my goals for the year—ever amazed by how overfamiliarity of our surroundings can blot out fun details. Like mailboxes. I’ve never really considered the fact that they are blue—just like dumpsters and recycling bins and many many cars. I took out my camera and snapped picture after picture.

When I got home, I laid on my yoga mat and stretched, watching the ceiling fan spin slowly on my ceiling, blowing the perfumy scent of the peonies on my dining room table my way.

For the next couple hours, I just sat. I journaled, I watched an episode or two of TV, I had a snack and watched the clouds clear into a perfect 75-degree day and then drove out to my sister’s house for a day with family.

And it was as if there was something in the air. An undeniable coziness we were all feeling at once. We barbecued hamburgers and hot dogs, eating entirely too many chips while they cooked; we pointed at each other’s Stanley cups that all happened to be the same color, exchanging the constant questioning of “is this one yours or mine?” We prepared a potluck spread of salads (fruit, leafy green and potato) and echoed, “don’t forget about the beans on the stove!” down the line of people with plates.

Outside, we turned on the bubble machine and marveled at the giggles of my niece as she ran in and around them. I sat on the cement and pretended to eat them, and we clapped our hands out in front of us saying, “pop!”

We went swimming, relieved at the little bit of cloud cover that kept the day that perfect temperature, and played a card game that made us laugh. We slouched in comfortable chairs and drank Poppi and talked about books and pointed at airplanes. We watched Monday hours fly by much faster than they do when we’re on the clock, all perhaps feeling that same feeling—”can’t every day be like this?”—while also knowing that if they were, they might not feel this good.

I went home and went to bed early and woke up on Tuesday—something I’d repeat to myself all day: it is TUESDAY—already one step closer to the end of the workweek, the gift of the three-day weekend still giving.