I grew up waiting.
Waiting for mother to come home because she used to work almost everyday and does not go home until the sun has made the sky feel its own coldness. Waiting for father to leave the house for his voice always startles like how thunder rattles the silence of the dawn. Waiting for my big brother to teach me how to ride a bicycle because he plays favorites and he liked teaching our youngest back then.
My god mother used to tell me she likes taking me to the market because I never ask for anything. I just wait for the time I’d be offered sweets or anything. So waiting for me is like breathing.
Until breathing became tiring.
Like when you’ve been running because your teacher hates late comers and she has a habit of locking classroom doors when the lesson starts. You run for you not to miss the class. When you arrive, you try to catch your breath before greeting her and everyone. When finally you have settled on your chair, you feel your knees tremble like there are earthquakes god has birthed on your joints. Your muscles contract like a sling shot being stretched and instead of becoming strong, you feel all the strength leaving you and you are left so worn out.
Waiting dilapidates all the cheerfulness you keep on the pages of being hopeful.
You try to suture the pages to make it whole again, but it’s like stitching the skies into a tattered quilt.
Boy, I’m so damn tired of waiting for you to become a man.
So I have torn the leaf of yesterday and folded it into swans so I can let it go with gracefulness.
I’ll be watching you still, I know. Deep inside, I know.