Weekends

Weekends

Weekends are the loneliest days
Long, and full of sitting
Without saying much. 
The house seems too large somehow,
Like a pair of ill-fitting pants
Tight in all the wrong places.

Long hours full of noticing 
My mood, or lack thereof
Its effect on my child
The absence of my husband, who is sitting right there
Like a ghost town, ravaged
by slowly building despair.

I keep asking myself
Should we go somewhere else
Will the mood follow us
Or will it stay here
like a bad smell that would leave
If I opened the door

Should we be around people
Spend time with our friends
Will their despair add or detract from ours
Will the lack of connecting
Be worse 
Than being alone

Weekends are the loneliest days
They tick by slowly
Minute by minute
They add up to hours
Like stones on my heart
Too heavy to hold.