In this place, space, rhythm…I’m waiting.

What for, not when, but who. That’s why I’m waiting. Only He holds the key to the door that hasn’t opened yet. The door that won’t budge when pulled. Though I’ve pulled, and pulled, and pulled. I’ve pulled, and pushed, and knocked, and banged, but still, no one comes to answer.

So, I’m sitting out here waiting. And waiting.

Is the waiting friend or foe? Neither. Both. At times, it sits beside me and holds my hand. The soft touch gently caressing the weary wounds that have formed in the deepest part of me. That inner hollow of my being that sighs a great sigh every time a hopeful date passes us by. Like an empty bench at a bus stop, wondering when it will be my turn to pick up my bags and leave this place of waiting.

Other times, with hands of iron, it grips me, arrests me to the floor. I’m tugged by the trials, turned over by the time spent. The choke hold of postponement has me struggling against it’s stoppage. And I hear the count in my head. Ten, nine, eight, seven…Seven seconds until the lights go out and the breath leaves my lungs for another. Another time, another place, space, where all my waiting is over.

The moratorium of all my present hopes and expectations. Moratorium. More like mortuarium: a receptacle for the dead. Dead ambitions and plans. Plans suspended like a moment in time. Like a piece of the past crystalized in ice, and it’s waiting for someone to break it free.

So instead, I position myself in a posture of pure surrender. I drive my knees into the hard surface and throw my arms up in deference. And then I hear a voice calling to me from some higher place… “Miss Hamsher? The doctor will see you now.”