Waiting
Tapping his feet he stood by the open front door, his brow knitted like a worn down woollen jumper. my father always said he hated waiting, he traced it back to his mother waiting for his father to return from the war. Anxiety inherited like hair that goes frizzy in the rain.
Whispers over neighbours fences about Mrs Jenkins now left alone forever. The dreaded fallen uniform hangs like an empty shell, calling memories of what has been lost. Faded photographs evoke the past, and remind my father of his mothers worry. Bricks crumble. I listen in with ears from the future, and wonder what it felt like to wait for bombs to drop over St Pauls.
Standing by the open front door, the sound of Monday morning traffic, school children begging for sick days, and the refrigerator door opening, this is the soundtrack for hours spent pre-empting the second half of the day. The air waits with us like a silence asking to be broken. We didn’t breathe, breathing felt like too much of a distraction.
Waiting for flights to summer breaks in Greece made teeth grind against finger nails. Skin erodes like pebbles on a beach. Hands behind backs, shoulders bent, pacing back and forth, back and forth, starring at the arrivals board.
Time passes, we wait for envelopes sealed by shaking fingers, newlyweds to run through marble corridors, old leaves to fall, and new leaves to grow. My father waited for most of his life, just as his mother waited for time to heal, and I wait for time to pass.
Hands tick on antique clocks, we breathe our last breath when there is nothing left worth waiting for. My father closed the door when he realised waiting is merely watching time.
I Š 2013
Sophie is from London. She writes poetry and short fiction for the stage and the page. She has performed her poetry at The Roundhouse, The Battersea Arts Centre, and Brick Box. She is the cofounder of The Patchwork Paper, and PortmanteauPerformance Company.