What Day Is It?

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"What day is it?" I ask
every now and then,
now that I am old and
every day is a Saturday.

I am so old I remember
when the Monday washing
was supposed to be
out on the line before 8 a.m.
and we compared whiteness.
As if it mattered.

I am so old I remember
hats and white wrist-length gloves
on Sunday morning.
The rest of the week,
the women wore cotton housedresses.
No one but farmers
had ever heard of jeans,
and nylons were held up
by garterbelts,
and had a stripe
up the back of your leg
that had to stay straight.
No one knew why.

There were years of busy days
raising children,
then years and years
of working days,
with never enough time,
when I lived for the weekend.

Now I am retired
(or just extremely tired)
and every day begins the same:
a cup of tea and
the whole, lovely, slow day before me.

"What day is it?" I ask,
every now and then.
But it doesn't really matter.
All the days are mine now.
Every day's a Saturday.

for Sarah at dVerse: What day is it anyway?