Our Waiting Rooms
by Odin Roark

One’s special space,
where chin resting
upon knees tucked,
arms wrapped tight,
to be the hidden ball
we wish to be.

How many such moments
harbor our protected thoughts,
those times when
happiness hangs tenuous,
like a spider’s web in progress,
trusting no harm will come
while trying to anchor
tomorrow’s hope.

We’ve all been there,
whether in a changing room,
closet,
bedroom corner,
or attic darkness,
whether child,
adult,
or senior.

The fortunate arrive at a different moment,
that time when there’s neither regretting the past
or fearing the future.

Yes…

We carry our waiting rooms
upon our backs,
or held tight in prayerful hands,
perhaps beneath squeezed eyelids,
and sometimes a body in frozen ice of our making.

So vulnerable we feel.

So vulnerable.

Remembrance brings back painful times,
when trying so hard to maintain balance,
we’ve often fallen into the void.

Along the way,
the waiting room receives anxious news…
information,
results,
decisions,
hopes,
dreams,
fears.
accompanied by eager bearers with their answers,
all with passkeys.

Then…

Comes the time when we unclasp our grip,
lift our heads above the burden,
spread our arms,
and breathe out our own answers,
often for the first time,
discovering one’s special space
is self-acceptance.

If fortunate…

We reach waiting room’s open door
facing freedom without parallel,
forging forever that life exists
often as mere moments-in-waiting,
moments one allows for breathing
regardless the consequence.

Ah…

The juncture.

A moment ready to thrive outside the waiting room.