I have this memory.
No one else was awake. My two brothers were still asleep in the second bedroom on the left down the hall. A wall separated our color schemes... mine all girly yellow gingham bedding, one wall of tiny yellow flowered wall paper, complete with green and white shag carpet, theirs red, white and blue with bunk beds and dirty clothes on the floor. My daddy was probably asleep, too; he worked a paper route and would often crawl back in bed after throwing countless numbers of rolled papers out the window before the sun came up.
In that moment, it was just me and her, the girls of the house, with our matching brown hair and brown eyes. We probably talked about what we'd do that day. It was Saturday, a day different from any other in the week. A day of nothingness with no work or school or hustle or bustle. A day to spend any way we saw fit. And she had a song about it... we called it the Saturday Song. So she sang it for me as I sat in her lap, and we relished in the promise of the beautiful Saturday ahead of us.
Today is not Saturday at all. It's Friday. But I woke with the Saturday Song on my mind. I woke with my mother on my mind. I woke thinking of her, who she is, who she has been for me, who she makes me want to be.
I'll have the Saturday song stuck in my head all day long.