Waiting Time

A return to the hospital. It doesn’t matter which one. Inside, they are all the same: a world of their own, bright of light and cool of air. If you’re lucky, you find a quiet corner to wait. It will be near an electrical outlet and away from a vent, because when air is 63 degrees, it’s better if it’s not blowing in your face.

You will get busy with the work you brought, not only because it must be done but also because it tethers you to the outside world, a world that vanishes the minute you enter the lobby with its quiet hush. 

There will be no clocks on display in the waiting room. At the nurse’s station, however, a large round analog version with numbers written in a clear black font looms serenely over the scene. 

You realize then that clocks are signs of power. Those who have them are those who are responsible to them, those who have something to do. You, on the other hand, are only waiting.