What Is Waiting
What is waiting for me is . . .
Mom, at a campground, sitting beside a silver bullet-shaped camper. In my vision, she is smiling, straight hair tucked behind an ear, eating a roasted hot dog, sipping iced tea. No particular age, just her essence. Enjoying the life she should have had. Not a care in the world imprinted on her face. Ease. What should have been.
What is waiting for me is . . .
Honesty. He’s just standing there, leaning against the doorframe, one suspender over his shoulder, the other dangling. He’s waiting for me to say something, start a conversation.
What is waiting for me is . . .
Rawness, realness, getting it done.
What is waiting for me is . . .
A cottage I find by following breadcrumbs into the woods.
What is waiting for me is . . .
A release, and open arms. A warm embrace walked into. Sometimes human touch is the answer, and better than any spoken word.
What is waiting for me is . . .
Me.
