(no subject)

[isom]

+ Today I predict empty envelopes, rushing molasses-like through the minutes and sheets of ice on my street as I slip uphill to and from work. Waiting has always been my strength. Age 10 and coming home to a door locked and not knowing where my parents or sister were, I waited on that stoop for two hours thinking about car crashes and suitcases packed, then thinking about nothing and pulling my hair out strand by strand and staring at the roots, thinking about pulling out grass blades for house walls on the playground. Fingers were wet and brown but busy. Age 14 after basketball practice and it getting dark hours after until they came to pick me up hiding in a corner. Patience I wouldn't call it, rather a weaving mind tracing school-house mortar. That's how I kept time. Age 23 and waiting at the airports, trainstations and busstops for scheduled arrivals and departures that never matched their or my itineraries. My bags kept me company, bags that I packed in seconds but sat for hours. Age 28 after desperate calls that I couldn't make it and needed his help, I counted the minutes of a seven hour car ride until he came. I counted the minutes backwards seven hours until I made it home. I left 30 days later, nothing gained, nothing learned. Now age 32 I'm so accustomed to waiting that it's become a weight or an anvil, like I know nothing else. It's always the same. I'm waiting for some things I know and some things that remain unveiled like a gift or a cannon. Nothing great. Nothing bad. I'll never know. That is the thrill and the ennui of waiting. They say the days are getting shorter. I say how long they've become.

x. i.