Waiting

Mother has been sent for operation.

Minor, they say,

but still an operation.

Not a trace of fear

shows on her face.

Perhaps it hides somewhere

in a quiet corner of her heart,

like it does in all of us.

Now, we wait.

Along with many others.

A long hallway,

lined with cold metal seats.

Light pours in

from one end.

The air hums with people.

Stretchers roll past,

seeking space, seeking hands.

Some stare into the distance.

Some fiddle with their phones.

A few yawn,

tapping their feet

until sleep finds them.

I sit and watch.

The whole world seems to pass through here,

people of every age,

moving to the rhythm

of doctors and interns.

White and blue

own the place.

Bags and quilts

rest on the benches.

Names are called,

one by one.

We wait for ours.

Hours pass.

Half-asleep.

A little tired.

Still waiting.

A.V