Saturday & Sunday

She was never home on Sundays. No one knew where she went. Locking her door, she would skip down her porch steps, but rarely before dropping her keys and muttering a curse. Her glasses perched atop her head and her backpack slung over her shoulder she would jump into her shiny black car. On days when the birds sang and the sun shone, she’d keep the top down, and turn the music up. Nodding her head along to that music I never recognized. She’d back down the driveway, turning the corner and kissing Amherst Street goodbye for the day.It was a routine that she’d kept tradition since she moved in. From the time she moved in those years ago, she would leave every Sunday, down the street and away for hours on end. Her headlights wouldn’t be seen until they flashed into my window at night, and every time I rolled over and looked at my clock it would be one o’clock am the dot.
It was a repeat everyday for two years. Every Sunday.
One day, I decided to figure it out. It was one of the sunny days, and the top was down in her car, and I heard the famous curse she’d mutter under her breath. I hid out in my garage, acting like I was going through boxes but all I was doing was waiting for that familiar groan of her Camaro to roar to life and head off down the street.
I jumped into my car, and secretly followed her. Each corner she turned, I was a car behind her. She turned into a fast food place, drove through the drive thru, taking no more than 30 seconds with her order. I went next, and only took a small thing of fries, because my stomach could take no more than an hour without eating.
As I waited behind her, I heard a voice in the back of my head telling me to turn around, go home, and continue my own Sunday routine. It told me I was being a stalker. But I couldn’t go back to my normal Sunday, I had to keep going.
I stayed a car or two away as we hit numerous stoplights and road signs, before she turned into a dirt drive. Her car lurched over the drive and she took off down the path.  as my foot hit the gas and kept going.  I kept going though, down a few more drives to a gas station, and parked behind it, walking away with the ring of the car locking in my ears. I walked up the sidewalk, and up and away from the drives I passed before, and lurched my own self onto the dirt, and followed the tire tracks until they ended. My face pulled in confusion.
There were paths everywhere, so it felt useless to keep following one until I saw the girl I’d been neighbors with for two years. I had given up. The little voice in the back of my head back at that drive through was just me, I knew it was true. I kicked the dirt, and took off down the one path I did know well. I ended at a patch of grass, a few feet away I found the car that played the music , but she was nowhere to be found.
As I walked, I remembered the endless days when I’d come here as a teen, picking at heaps of grass, looking into the sky, talking to my dad. I’d eat a burger from an old place down the street my dad and I visited that had closed ages ago, and talk to the ghost of a dad I had about anything and everything. I’d eat the fries crying about my mother grounding me, or complain about my grumpy old math teacher. Sometimes, it’d be raining, and I had run away from home, and I just sat there on that ledge, screaming at the foggy air for him to come back, that he wasn’t gone, that he didn’t jump off this ledge that every Saturday I’d come to, and still did
I had my Saturday tradition, she had her Sunday. My Saturday followed this path, down to a ledge that overlooked the ocean, the sunset that would follow it. So I took the Sunday and went down my path, and was utterly surprised when I saw her, the bag sitting next to her with a half eaten burger.
“I saw you coming here, you’re the car was behind mine.” She said, never looking back.
“Why here? Why the ledge?” I asked, not looking at her. It was merely an exchange of words between us. We never looked each other in the face.
For five minutes, we stayed quiet, staring out over the ledge.
“When I first moved here,” she started. “I found an old obituary in an old newspaper, one about this guy that jumped off a ledge, this ledge.”
It was morbid to hear, but I let her carry on.
“I have this thing on memorials. I like to remember people. You’ll remember them for a while, but once the obituary runs out of the paper and the funeral service is over, you forget.” She repeats. “I like to remember people, because once the news of a life gone has run it’s course, it’s back to your usual day. I don't want people to be forgotten”
“That was my dad.” And it’s the only thing I say, before sitting down next to her, opening my bag, and pulling out my fries, saying a silent hello to my dad. 
After the day I followed her, we would go every Sunday, or Saturday, depending on our moods. Stories were swapped of her memorial adventures, and mine of my dad, of my life, and our excitement of the old burger shop that would open back up in July.