the waiting room

it's a state of disconnect, a game of touch and go, day by day step by step. listening for the door rushing open - the slam of the screen, heavy footsteps, surprised smiles and it's "where were you?" but knowing all the same. it feels like an in between stage, these unreal nights of dinner on my lap and mom near me on the couch, watching foreign films and turning in at 10 o clock. the hours dragging at our eyes and hearts and our hands constantly waiting, trying not to forget the angle of your shoulders, the scar above your lip, the tiny bumps of cancer in your inner arm and between your collarbones. i work and diet and write and read and feel asia pulsing in my blood but above all i wait for the door and the greetings and the return of normalcy, of you and mom and davey and i, wine on the patio and the trips in the van, video games and petty arguments, hugs at night and morning coffee. there's more than this, it's coming, it's under our skin, sunken into our bones. we wear this anticipation like worn clothing, something always there, familiar and safe. we wait for you to come home, hang your coat, and tell us about your trip.