Saturday Night.

Saturday night and the sun slowly sets behind my water stained wooden fence. The orange hue of the fading sun floats lazily from north to south like stagnant smoke from a cigarette. The Rocky Mountains hold the remaining minutes of daylight hostage and its glowing warmth radiating from the white snowcaps prolongs my day a few more minutes.

The brown eyes of my golden dog casually look up from the white, hollow bone between his long legs as he licks out the peanut butter filling. One quick glance as he lays in the brown, brittle grass of the backyard and a conversation of one thousands words is exchanged. He sees right through me, can see into my soul, and is sympathetic towards how I feel.

My wife’s warm hands hug a labeled pint glass of fresh raspberry iced tea. Her legs propped comfortably on the bench seat of our deck –shoes off, her head rocking back and forth as she illustrates a story of words with her body to her mother on the other end of the telephone line. I glance at her, she smiles.

An old blues song hovers from inside the house. The light, fluorescent from the lamps, blankets the two kittens cuddling in the sill of the wooden window. Their gray, spotted coats lean against the black mesh screen and they wish with all their lives that they, too, could be outside.

A single engine plane tugs in the distance, its engine churning furiously to keep the plane above ground and its occupants safe from the world below. The shadow precedes the noise and the silhouette dances across the suburban rooftops like a rabbit running from a vicious canine.

The clouds hover gracefully above my head, teasing my imagination into creating images remembered from the warm summer days of my childhood. Floating between the still, naked branches of the dormant winter trees in my backyard the vastness of the sky, the birds, the clouds, and the squirrel that lives in my Aspen, all taunt me into seriously re-examining my faith. They look at me and ask me to ask the questions that everyone should examine in their own lives. They remind that there is more to life than an occupation. That it is the journey itself that life is about.

But, with the inevitability of a Death Row conviction, the second hand of time marches forward regardless of my emotion. The sun sets, the moon rises, the day ends and my mood changes. Sullen. Sad. A little stressed. It is my Sunday night on this Saturday eve and tomorrow I will return to work. Tomorrow my shield goes up and I will try and protect what little inner salvation I have left from this draining job.

The wild things are out there -waiting ominously. Managers, coworkers, passer-byers, and patients all feverishly rubbing their hands together like a villain in a silent film, all waiting and hoping to stain my soul with their very own sadness, anger, and immaturity. My shield will be ready and my strength renewed.

I sigh, stand and open my flimsy screen door into the family room. Where did the weekend go?

And why can't I do this for a living?