The Wait
Does the tide wait for the moon, or a pitcher plant for a fly?
Five days after the biopsies, my son waits for the garbage truck — nose to glass, fleshy feet drumming the sill — as I hope for a buzz in my palm. But what is waiting, without knowing the slug-trail of time, or the sketch of what you anticipate?
Air brakes hiss. His stout neck cranes. A bus rounds the corner. He squeals, claps — as if, all along, this was the promised thing. The garbage truck, a footprint in the sand. My phone, still and dark, in my hand.
Photo Credit: laikolosse
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