December ‘25

Waiting Song

Perhaps I first heard it in the

thin catalogue pages

flipping, flipping, flipping,

a snare beating the pace of time

with my six year old fingers

anxiously hoping, killing endless time

till Christmas -

when I heard the beat

to the Waiting Song.

Future loves the Waiting Song.

In her daily practice

she rattles off

scales and arpeggios

inside my head

like someone hogging the conversation

while I butter my toast.

I’ve heard Future whisper the Song

like a dreaming flute

for nine straight months

while nature mixed the

perfect cocktail of hormones

before my children were born.

But Future will also blare

like a quartet of trumpets

standing over me while I try to sleep

as she did for days before

the diagnosis,

or while I tossed and turned

considering fragile words

for the hard conversation.

Future, though, is not her own voice,

she is my echo

against the mountains of time

and will hush

at the airy sound of my breath.

When I tire of her arrangements

I blow Future away - puh!

like dandelion tufts -

so I can hear the tidal waves of

breath chanting in my soul,

iiin,

ooout,

the original rendition of

the Waiting Song.