“I’m just another day to you, Mr. Retired. You woke early and walked right past me. No mirror check. No fist pound. Not even a ‘morning’.”

“What do you want from me, S?”

“Simply some acknowledgement. Affirmation. I’m afraid you’ll lump me and my best friend, Sunday into some downshift, cold-shoulder outcasts.”

“What? Wait a minute, everyone told me I have seven-day weekends now. Saturday and Sunday aren’t some pit I step down into. You guys aren’t like a pair of dice I throw hoping for a seven. I roll all sevens now.”

“Jerry, that’s the point, you’re heading in the direction of indistinction. All days will become daily before you know it. The Creator began with seven. Morning and evening as it were. Each day held radical light, and words poured out into physical manifestations. I am, as Saturday, the sixth day in which The Creator spoke land animals into existence. The Creator spoke male, and from male was created the female. And then provisions came from the mouth of God to feed you and the animals.  If I didn’t exist, neither would you exist, or the egg white omelet you wolfed down.”

“Hey Sat, I thought the preaching comes on Sunday.”

“Ah yes, Sunday has something to say, too. All I’m saying is, don’t shuffle all the days like a deck of cards. We don’t like it when humans ‘go fish’ us. Don’t pick us out of a pile. Don’t daze at days, for heaven’s sake. Each one of us is a gift from The Creator. Say thanks. Say your prayers.”

“Thanks. Have a good–.”

“Day?”