Waiting

Somehow most of life seems to be spent waiting now
            waiting in queues waiting for messages waiting for things to get better

Time passes less as a series of event than a series of waits: the wait between
sunday and monday, the wait between dialing and picking up, the wait between
the way things were and the way they will be.

A series of bouncing dots and of dial tones, spinning wheels and the ticking of the kitchen clock as it announces another minute of nothing.

And so I learn to pick up my tools and turn the waiting into a sculpture of its own, a monument to caring enough to wait. I will turn the dial tone, the bouncing dots, the endless ticking into a quiet, beautiful work of art, a testament to the kind of love that values forever over now.

I will sculpt it and when I cannot pick up my tools I will tear it barehanded into something beautiful.

Jane Elizabeth Yarnell is a university student and occasional writer who loves the outdoors, the ocean, and stories that almost make sense. Her work has been featured in the Young Poets section of Acumen.

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