The Silence of Saturday

 Give me the outcasts and the castaways, the beggars and liars and thieves. I’ll sit with the goth kids and the trans students and the refugees and the dreamers. Save me a seat under the bridge near the Amway Grand with Rick and his cardboard sign and a holy sleeping bag and the stench of self-destruction. 

I found more grace in jail than in the church, more hope in the disqualified prophets than celebrity pastors. I’d rather listen to Happy’s harmonica than endure yet another inquisition from a committee of acquaintances who’ve never spent a waking second on division. We can overturn every stone, dodging the questions like friendly fire. 

Somewhere between the horror of Friday and the glory of Sunday is the silence of Saturday… 

Give me Scott at the Sober Living House, three months free from alcohol. Give me Brad in the depths of his heroin addiction. I’m looking for Tim and Bobbie Jo and the streets that hide the runaway tears. I’m looking for Ruben and Rosie, for Timmy and Haley and through the myriad of layers I’m looking to find myself, somehow.