I
They are cozily tucked behind several doors. Five layers of them, as you recount the journey in your mind. First the front door. Then the inside front door and the brief humph of breath that leaves you as you push it open. Then the interruption of 26 stairs. Then the door to your apartment. Then the dim, narrow hallway. Then the door to your bedroom. Then the door to your closet. All those doors and their knobs. And that’s when it hits you how cold your hands are.
It happens in the space between your loud mind and the soft wind, when cold trills around your fingers. Your hands curl up into fists, trying to stoke heat. Then a stiff breeze turns hair and scarves sideways. Your eyes zoom in on the hands of the woman standing just steps away on the platform. Those delicious thick wool gloves. A twinge of envy sets ablaze inside your chest. Why did I forget them? This awareness is a conflagration.
You know exactly where they are. Rolled up one inside of the other into a fuzzy little ball. Periwinkle because it’s a specific shade of sky that you like. Back left corner of the middle drawer. Snuggled between sleepwear and socks. You think of the hearth mittens offer to fingers and how just the vision of them is a kindling crackle. But the vision soon fades.
The digitized countdown on the subway platform says 3 min, and you are struck by its audacity. Time’s penchant for cruelty, how mean. That waiting is cold. That waiting is lonely. That waiting is regret. That waiting is a stiff, strong drink with too much ice. That hope wrapped in imagination is an artificial fire behind plexiglass.
But then you see subway lights heading towards you from a distance. Heat couched in each car for you to sink into. Your fingers begin to thaw at the mere sight of it. And suddenly, waiting has company. Waiting becomes warmth.
II
I almost forgot. The walk to the subway feels like just another walk, but then I enter the train and remember that I didn’t leave my house for no reason. I wish it was just simply because.
The subway car seats are blue. The color we arbitrarily call powder blue. Powder is peace. Powdered snow is a pillow to fall in. Powdered sugar coats fried and baked things and raises taste buds to ecstasy. Powder is a puff of perfume to pat on a décolleté. I enter into the vortex of blue things we already know are calming, like sky and ocean. But so are blueberries, blue jays, and forget-me-nots. And then I exit this weaving of comfort and color. The seats are hard. I wriggle. I didn’t leave my house today just to sink into powder blue.
The subway, for now, is a waiting room.
The subway, for now, is a waiting room.
III
Waiting is a curtain
but it does not stay
draped and bunched on the stage forever
Overhead lights illuminate spectacle while
Shadows cradle suspense
Players in the corridor
recite their lines with choreographed grace
Others ignorant of the script
improvise
which is the role you fill
You touch the vignette haze
of your frame
The curtain lifts upon
disparate settings of
patience and endings
The friends finally arrive
Sulking finally turns to laughter
The scene is finally found
The moment is finally grasped by the shutter
The train finally pulls in
You finally find a seat
Your name is finally called
The test is finally administered
Another week finally ends
Again finally the test
The phone finally rings
The diagnosis is finally given
You exit stage left
The holding of breath is finally let go
