The wait is long

Waiting, I hate waiting. And yet I do it so well. I can wait better than anyone. Quietly. Watching the second hand as the ticks go by. Sometimes avoiding the arrow at all cost so that I cannot remember how long I waited for. If you can't remember sometimes five minutes and five hours could feel the same.

I hate waiting. But it feels like I do it the best. Better than anyone, I can wait. Quitely. If you asked me what I do best I can say “I wait”.   My whole life I feel like I've been waiting, breaking the time into tiny manageable pieces. One more hour. That's only two sets of thirty minutes. And thirty minutes is really almost twenty minutes which isn't that long. I play these games when I wait. What am I waiting for? Why am I am waiting? Am I even waiting for anything or does the act itself define me. I must be waiting for something. My first memory was of waiting. When I fall into my memories, and let my soul fall through the years, I wait at memories of waiting.

It's like a train station isn't it? I wait and wait, I let the trains pass because they aren't my train. But then I watch the last train go and i can't quite remember which train I should have taken. The doubt creeps in. Did I miss it? No… and yet how can I know that if I don't know what train to take. I just know my train hasn't come, and yet no more trains are coming. And so I wait. Because this train station is the only one I know the train will stop at. My mind goes in circles, just like my eyes following the second hand, slowly, so slowly in a circle.

“Stand straight and be silent”. The little girl nods her head and watches. Always watches. Pride and elegance found in silence, she spins on demi-pointe, tracing lines through the air as she returns to first position.    

“Speak when spoken to”. She charms the guests with stories and a child’s care free laugh. She waits for cake and tea and waits for mom to remember its slightly past her bedtime. And yet mom knows and lets her stay up a little longer. It's a special occasion and the tea smells delicious. The rich leaves settling at the base and faint wisps of steam flicking off the amber surface. She waits until the very last drops of tea are gone and kisses her mother goodnight.             She waits to fall asleep and listens to the clink of glasses and the quiet murmur of voices in the living room. The music is lower. Jazz. She closes her eyes and takes her memories out of a box in her mind and lays they out like treasures. Slowly, she put them back in the box one by one, gently, carefully, examining each one for something missed. Sometimes she thinks about adventure. Sometimes a calming wind rustling long, silvery green grasses in a field that man forgot. She waits to fall asleep.

I wait for my parents to come home, playing with my toys and listening to my grandpa turn the pages of his newspaper. It doesn't seem so long when Vova is here. Tata must be at their apartment cooking something tasty and wondering how my first day of first grade was like. Tomorrow she will pick me up. And the waiting too will feel shorter. And the next day Vova. And maybe on friday my sister can pick me up, stopping to buy us ice cream from the Carvel. But soon the time all feels the same. I wait for the bus, I wait for my next class, I wait for my friend, I wait for my grandparents, I wait for my parents. My sisters home. I wait to finish my homework, I wait for dinner, I wait to fall asleep.

Sometimes I dream. I wait on a beach with only fog around me. Sometimes I get a visitor and my wait seems shorter. But all that come must go. Why am I waiting here? I climb up the mountain, feeling the crisp air on my cheeks. The air tastes different. Everywhere. I watch  the sun peek in and out of the clouds. The grass dances to the tune of the wind. I watch the sky change and the earth change hues. I feel as if I stand at the top, watching it for years, centuries, millennia. At once I am alone and yet I do not know what alone is. I watch through time,and when time ends I have seen the universe. But still I wait. Quietly. And yet I do not know for what I wait.

"The wait is long, and my dream of you does not end."- Nuala O'Faolin

I wonder what she waits for.