Waiting Rooms

I grew up in hospital waiting rooms. Always waiting.

I grew up in those rooms, watching the highest of highs and lowest of lows passing before me on the faces of strangers, strangely connected by the lifeline of this room. Quick steps and slow steps were ambiguous, for they never symbolized just one emotion. Always waiting.

I saw pain pass slowly, remorse rest, and joys come into their existence. I was stuck in an endless loop of hospital floors, stuck in a wave of growth and stifled dreams. The stale air suffocated me and brought me back to the beginning. Always waiting.

The view from the 9th floor waiting window was a forever-changing display of the seasons, a display that reminded me the earth was still turning, the city still breathing. Beat by beat, moment by moment, I was always waiting. The push button of the automatic doors reminds me of my life, a life on autopilot, steering wheel controlled by grief. Always waiting.

For in those rooms, all of my family and friends came to pass. It grew a dream into me, a dream that my big, Dutch family would always be a part of my life. That was a false reality, a reality that could never survive outside of that filtered hospital air.

I grew up in hospital waiting rooms. My life ended in one, and my life began in one instantly. All I was really waiting for in that waiting room was an answer to a prayer. In the end, it was answered with the breaking of my heart. It is always answered.