Waiting Room

The Waiting Room

Alone, she sits in the chair
by the window – a forgotten book
on her blanketed lap.

I pause at the door, hand on its frame;
my lips parted enough to breathe
yet intended words cower behind
some dented wall in my mind. I glance
down the hallway behind me – hoping
no one sees, I don’t belong here
and have no right to invade
her patient waiting.

I used to fear those eyes when they
would sharpen on each new motion, seeing
and resenting each invasion- she missed
nothing but measured and sometimes cut.
When anger lighted that green-brown
gaze, I wanted to run . . . how different
from now – her undisturbed expression
demands nothing. So why is this
feeling drawn by those eyes, waves
that tug at an anchored boat – I can feel
the slack and snap tight of the rope,
then slack again and wonder how much
longer . . . “Mom,” in a word I pull her back
to me, “are you alright?”

She waves her hand in a castoff way
as she meets my eyes with sun blurred
vision and I shudder – a child clinging
to frayed lines with rope-burned hands.