The Wait

The Wait

The signs on the door say
Please Use The Other Side

No Smoking

Turn Off Your Cell Phone For The Courtesy Of Others

You fill out paper work that you have already filled out before.

We sit on a brown suede couch, Time magazines from 2010,

and the low chatter of other patients with their audible sighs fill the waiting room.

An elderly woman pulls clippers from her purse,
 cutting her fingernails
as the crescent moon shapes fall onto the carpet.
Such a strange thing to do.

I grab the journal that I always keep in my over sized bag, 

writing down my observations.

You sit by my side,

hands fidgeting,

staring across the room at the fish tank

as a child in a pink coat runs over to peer into the bubbling water.

"Jessica, her mother calls impatiently,

"Get over here."

I think about how weary she sounds,

 wondering how often I was like that  with my own children.

One of the receptionists calls you over to the desk,

and you ask how long the wait is.

She laughs nervously, saying it will be a few hours.

Why don't they call the house when he is running that late?
I look down and randomly notice that my feet don't touch the floor.

You pull your Ipod from the pocket of your faded jeans,

putting the ear buds in, closing your eyes for a moment.

Your cell phone vibrates, and I try to see who the text is from,

but the tiny letters are blurry.

Do I need reading glasses?

I smile inwardly,
picturing myself with a beaded lanyard hanging around my neck.

The little girl in pink skips to the door, and out into the winter wind.

A woman pushing a man in a wheelchair

 says that she thinks the wind has picked up a little bit,

as a man walks in carrying a bouquet of tulips in his hand.

I hear the jangling of keys.

Impatience and flowers.

These words have calmed my mind of the fear.

"It will be fine", my mother-in-law often says,

and I believe.

I believe...

Angela Minard 2012©