Forgotten are Saturday’s plans to stay up past midnight, like we did in our twenties: clean house, catch up on everything left undone during the trudge and drudge of another workday week. Today is the day for pajamas till dinner, for lolling in bed with the beloved, for rolling around with dogs. No need to check weather reports. No need to predict traffic patterns. No need to track stock tickers. Today is the day of Lugh, Horus, Phoebus, and Aurora. No need to disturb kobolds nestled in polished black flats in the back of the closet. No need to risk serpents coiled round hangers bearing starched dress shirts. Today is the day for listening to the hum just beyond the window, for dreaming of a secret battle to save the bees, once and for all. In years to come, some future queen will weep when visiting my memorial deep in the heart of the hive. And while commemorating my valor in a eulogy to drones and workers, the monarch will leave unsaid how I didn’t shave or wash my hair before leading the final charge.