When I was young on Saturday
I would sleep in,
Not worry about school or any practice
The smell of my dad’s famous burnt waffles
Wafting through the air and sneaking under my bed covers as my nose perks up.
Light streams as I open the window,
Blinding me momentarily

I would rush down the hall,
Rounding the corner
And hitting my side on the table as I sat.
The pain was a lot, but it soon was replaced with content as I took a helping of eggs.
My sisters clumsily join me, half asleep

When I was young on Saturday
I would laze around, talking to friends on the phone
Or hanging out at their house.
The sounds of laughter would fill any room it occupies, silence being shunned into a
Non-exisant corner.

When I was Young on Saturday,
Lunch was filled with the aroma of a finely cooked hotdogs, or the scrumptious cold cuts in the fridge.
Nothing could beat the home-made in my mom’s home-made, non over cooked lunches

When I was young of Saturday,
The afternoons filled with the day of cleaning
Chemicals ruining our sense of smell
The pungent odor of bleach hanging limply in the air.
It wasn’t my favorite times during Saturday,
But nothing could beat hanging out with my family only.

When I was young on Saturday
My nights would be filled with lights
The hamburgers on the grill, sizzling to perfection
Lettuce, tomatoes, and sauces positioned evadingly on the table.
The day was through, but Saturday had only begun.
After our stomachs ached with deep satisfaction,
We would cuddle to the sound of a movie
Shinning in the dark living room,
Illumined our surroundings.
When I was young on Saturday,
I never wanted to look back on Friday; I never wanted to look forward to Sunday
I was young on Saturday,
And that was always enough