The Waiting Door

I stood at the waiting door. The waiting door that I used to wait for years at. Eternities went by, and there were no tears to cry in the daylight, but many nights crying myself to sleep. I wasn’t sad waiting. Anxious, because I was desperately hopeful. It seemed that my short lived hope quickly smashed into disappointment. Soaked little Precious Angel blanket. Poor Molly; the nights she spent hugging me back. The walls heard it all. Smack. Scream. Singing. Wailing. The sound of silence. The voice that kept reminding me that you were not around, and that you would never come back to save me. I stood at the waiting door. Tippy toes, peaking out of the window. Watching for your car. I saw enough cars that looked exactly like yours, to break one thousand fragile, innocent hearts. Years later I think of how I waited for him as I looked calmly out of that same waiting door. Eyes of a child no more. Although, nothing has chanced. Once again, anxious. Forgotten, at my waiting door… everything has changed.


3 thoughts on “The Waiting Door

    • I relate very much with what you commented. This poem is actually about my childhood and my father. Similarly my mother chasing him away, but thankfully now my father and I are working toward a new and wonderful relationship.

      • I’m glad for you. After about 19 year absence, I contacted my dad on Father’s Day and we had phone/email/letter/blog contact for the past 14 years. And I took my daughters to see him in 2010, for my 40th birthday. That was the only time I’d seen him in 33 years, but that’s because we are too far away by car and we both don’t like flying. So we took a train out to see him for a week. It was really wonderful. He’s very ill. If he makes it to summer, I’m going back to see him as soon as I can make the arrangements.

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