hospital waiting rooms.
my mom knitting.
my sister surfing through the TV channels.
my uncle fretfully sorting papers,
it's his first day off in the twenty-six years he's worked.
her best friend flipping through a magazine.
my grandpa twirling an unlit cigar in his hands.
they told him he couldn't have it here — lit or unlit.
he told them he didn't care. he swore he would just put it in his mouth, that he wouldn't light it.
now we have a security guard watching us to make sure.
no one wanted to argue with him under the circumstances.
I have my Jodi Picoult opened on my lap
I keep reading the same words over again,
not comprehending anything.
"A mathematical formula for happiness"
sounds legitimate enough.
The floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the dreary town,
which is made more lonely when accompanied by the dark clouds rolling in.
I can't just sit here anymore.
I stand up. I walk into the elevator. I go to her floor. I walk into the doctor's lounge. There's machines everywhere. Surgeons are exiting, but no one tells me anything about being in there. The lights are off. The sun is setting. The window overlooks the curve in the river — the back bone of the "Crescent City." The boats have their lights on, and they're weaving slowly, in and out and in and out of the curves of the river. Just as one leaves my view, another rolls in. Never more than one, never less than one. Each slowly making it's way through, then moving on to its next journey.
I look down at my book, slowly making out each word in the dimness.
"Reality divided by expectation"
I wonder who could put those abstractions into values.
"There are two ways to be happy: improve your reality or decrease expectation."
I read on until it's too dark to see the page.
There's still a single boat in the river, weaving its way in and out.
Doctors stare at me as I walk out of the room. I step back onto the elevator. I go back to the waiting room floor. The lights are brighter here, and outside is cloudier but doesn't seem as dark as the riverfront. But even more dreary than before. I sit down.
No one has moved.
My mom has made progress on her scarf.
My sister has settled on a movie to watch.
My uncle is highlighting something.
Rita found an article that interested her.
My grandfather sits there, twirling his cigar,
The security guard is still watching.
********
song -- "St. Peter's Cathedral," Death Cab for Cutie
YOU ARE READING
My View from the Mount
PoetryA really close friend (she's the older sister I never had) once told me that I don't need to be established to consider myself a writer. So here I am. I'm a writer, but I'm not a professional. I'm just a girl with a pen who speaks through a notebook...
