I remember waiting more when I was young. I still recall the times when you couldn’t lift your cellphone five minutes past the scheduled time. When waiting meant a limbo, a state of hope, of looking for my mother’s car in the cold. I know I could recognize the sound of her engine before I see the headlights in the snow. Yet every approaching headlight is a hope of being wrong. When you cannot move every minute is an hour, every second crawl on skin becoming itch; in the deepest pit of my stomach burns concern and worry. I need to pee. when finally I hear the car; I’m solemn, sully, bored. “How was your day?” She smiles. I bend my head and say:”OK.”
every flake of snow —
different as numbered stars
still melts to water
Tomorrow we have a surprise guest prompting the haibun Monday at dVerse. The theme is waiting, come and join us at 9 PM CET.
Jan 23, 2016