Twenty years ago, one of my community college students wrote an essay about a day so busy that she forgot to pick up her seven-year-old daughter at school.
All tagged waiting
Twenty years ago, one of my community college students wrote an essay about a day so busy that she forgot to pick up her seven-year-old daughter at school.
I sit on the idling school bus, knitting a scarf and waiting for the other students to board so we can all go home, but the head that appears at the front of the bus belongs to my father, not a fellow student.
During my three-year-old daughter Daisy’s eight-hour transplant surgery, I imagined lying beside her on the operating table whispering, “Mommy loves you.”
When we get to the waiting room, our lucky seats are taken. We end up beside a talker.
“Sheila,” she said, looking worried. “Are you feeling ok?”
It’s 10:50 a.m. on what otherwise would have been a usual work-dominated Monday morning, and I find myself slowly running out of patience as I wait for him at a deserted metro station.
Bus-stop hung like bee-hive over sleepy township. Two women and I, five junior school kids, someone’s grandpa. The girls, careful of their gait, ironed-skirt pleats. Boys, throwing sand over each other’s shoes.
Found myself an awkward early. No coffee shops, bars, or convenience stores nearby. I continued toward Mass Ave. Really, I paced the same blocks, searching for prints of cottontails in small brownstone yards.