Fridays aren’t what they used to be. Now Fridays mean no matter what I need–unless is puppy-related–my errands will have to wait until Monday. It’s when my quiet little street becomes a little louder in the evenings as families begin to enjoy their time “off the clock.” As most everyone else gets out and about and the air is scented with charcoal, I retreat to familiarity and buckle down for the weekend. Weekends don’t seem to be full of the possibilities they once were.

I feel a pinch of sadness on Fridays. It can be quick, but is always assertive. An echo that reminds me that Friday’s (particularly in the summer months) used to mean firing up the grill, unfolding the chairs in the back yard and the maraca-sounding shakes of martinis being made. Though we talked every night, Fridays were special. It’s when we unplugged from the work week and laid out plans for the weekend. Most importantly, we were together after completing another week in “the matrix.”

Since being on leave from work, weekends have inverted from their usual place of solace from the “real” world. It’s the week days where I find my greatest joys in tending to my writing, garden, and my puppy. It’s Monday through Friday when I run errands and do things while everyone else is at work. It’s perfect for me. Never someone who enjoys crowds, my week is filled with intermittent trips and errands, and my weeknights–sometimes to the wee hours of the morning (I actually typed “mourning”…someone’s Freudian slip is showing)–is where I sometimes accomplish the most.

There hasn’t been a Friday since he died–and even some when he was failing mentally toward the end–where I haven’t felt this emotional pinch and sighed, recalling countless Fridays where weekends were kicked off, jokes were shared, and plans were hatched. I’ve often wondered when I’ll stop feeling the little twinge of Fridays past; when the flicker of memories won’t invoke that cold flash of sadness, yanking me out of the present and reminding me weekly of what joy the past still holds for me.

Until then I suppose I have no choice but to wait for my present to unfold, as I’m sure new traditions will emerge before I’m even aware of them, as they did before with Ken. In spite of this weekly reminder, the drive to move forward continues.