Waiting

Waiting is the easiest thing I’ve done.
I’ve waited for buses, for trains, for planes;
For people, for packages, for promises.
I’ve stood on sidewalks with one eye on the watch and the other on the edge of the lane,
My feet going tap-tap-tap and my heart easy and not yearning to move;
I’ve turned this way and the other, first the South and then the North
Looking to the East one moment and the West the other,
A windsock made of flesh, delighting in the somewhere else to be.

My dad used to write letters, you see.
Letters never lost their charm to me, not in the way phone calls became redundant;
If there was someone to send them to,
I think I would write them too.
And every time he picked up a stack of letters to reply,
He would pick one and place it at the bottom of the pile
And let it simmer in the warm air, for a day or two
The letter would sit there waiting, waiting, waiting.

I never ventured why, losing myself instead in the enamor of the dimly-lit study
And the sprawling jet-black letters on papers of jaundiced yellow;
It was not prudent to question fathers of their quaint, little ways
I had been told, or rather led to believe I had been told.
So I merely watched, day after day
One envelope always finding its way to the bottom
Laying there unattended through the days and the Moon
Until death would come for it, swift release from the top.

Several summers had to pass before I posed the question
Several summers before all innocence was lost and queries were repugnant no more;
But why do you do that, I asked, I begged,
The air smelling of mold and another batch of mail.
Do what, he asked me, thumbing through them all,
And then he did it again, his face adorned with a smile reserved only for love.
Oh that, he goes on, and settles back in his place, chair pulled in and with it the universe
That is the one I look forward to replying the most.

It sounded wrong, and looked so right
The words festering long enough to mean what they really mean;
Since then, it’s nothing but pleasure I find in waiting,
In standing by idly as your world takes its time to greet you.
The hours grow long and the nights grow cold
As the clocks tick by and the waves of time gently push forward;
With everywhere to be, I can always wait, wait, wait
Smiles reserved only for love to keep me company.

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Okay, not that it needed to be put in words, but this is completely fictitious.

As far back as I can remember, my dad never had a dimly-lit study and I never saw him write letters. Now that I think about it, I don’t even know if he has written letters. But I had to say “My father” because it evokes a prettier picture than any of the other alternatives. Anything for pretty, yes?