Waiting is a branch from a 
fallen tree, the air in Georgia in
August, a bronze statue of a 
dog with his tongue hanging
out. It is silent. It doesn’t sit and
hum in the lobby, feet kicking
back and forth under a seat 
that’s too high. It can panic,
but never makes a scene. 

Waiting is going for a walk while
tests are being run. It’s talking 
with a therapist while it hails out-
side, inside where all the dreams
are, afraid of being killed. It’s 
paying $4.27 for a chamomile tea
with soy, because something warm
in February makes everything easier
to bear. 

Waiting builds muscles, enhances 
communication skills, forces re-
evaluation of all the whos and 
whats of identity, plans, and certainties. 
It shreds. It strains. It plants it’s feet
or lifts them up, allowing itself to
drift into the wide fog and accept
unknown destinations.