The Waiting Room
Repeating words to myself
Posters on the wall
“You aren’t alone.” “We are here to help.”
The dizzying silence, assaulted by the undercurrent of worried whispers
The realisation:
We are all on borrowed time.
The bus on the way here
A shared silence, a collective dread
Swapping of the bus drivers,
Every movement slow, like time resisting us.
Faces flush as our time crunched stress peaks.
“Come on. Come on.”
Nobody is speaking, no lips are moving
But why is it so loud?
We stare at the stops lighting up on the panel,
Each one a heartbeat closer.
Our wrists, bandaged or bare, prophetic reminders:
“Late, Late, Late.”
Nothing is fast. Nothing is easy.
And now, sitting in the waiting room—
Old radio buzzing in the background,
A cough, a sigh, a door creaking open
Waiting for my nanna.
Seeing people my age walk in
I know I am lucky.
But who is lucky
Ladies, grown and graceful
But they were someone’s baby once.
And that someone? Someone’s baby too.
It never ends.
There’s never an easy moment.
Never an easy thought.
Never, never.
Nothing’s ever easy in The Waiting Room.
