Saturday morning, kitchen’s warm,
pancakes burning, here’s the storm.
Little hands upon the pan,
I’m the luckiest in the land.
It was the Saturday song.
The one David hummed every Saturday of Caleb’s whole life. The one I hadn’t been able to listen to since the funeral. The one I’d turned off in my own head every time it started to play, because hearing it felt like having my chest opened.
Caleb was singing it to four hundred strangers.
The man next to me had his tissues out already. I heard someone behind me whisper, “Oh no,” in that soft way people do when something is about to break their heart.
Caleb got through the first verse. His fingers slipped on one chord and buzzed, and he winced, and kept going.
Then the chorus.
Hold the light, hold the light,
I’ll be home before the night.
