The Weight of Waiting
I sit and wait, for you.
You do not know what it means to wait
the way that I have waited.
Sure, I’ve been late to dinner or
cancelled an evening plan of ours.
I've gotten stuck trying to get the
curls in my hair perfect for our night out,
10 minutes too late, tendrils bouncing with
anticipation as you check your watch.
But I have never made you wait the way
I wait.
The waiting I speak of is paralyzingly
heavy, years of female souls before and after me all pulling down the same life
raft, our fingernails did into the circular life force with a collective
desperation so powerful the ocean gives us some room to breathe as the waves
encircle us.
We sit together in a sticky purgatory
holding one another's hands, holding back tears, and clinging to positive
thoughts of what is in store for us.
While you enjoy your morning drip and
read the news of what's going on in other men's worlds, you know nothing of the
most beautiful, graceful waiting going on beside you, around you, in your
bathroom and in your kitchen.
You are so adorably and stunningly
clueless about everything.
How simple and quaint are your
concerns.
How infantile are your wishes and
desires.
The weight that I wait with feels like
the heaviest heat
emanating from the bus you were
supposed to be on.
And yet, paradoxically, your weight is
light like air, like a whim that never was,
As your decisions are made without
purpose or calculated thought,
You float through the sea of people you
know like a king on his chariot,
Because your rule is every waiting
woman.
