Patience

I.
Patience begins in the rough places—
the kind that rubs the spirit raw,

Especially when younger.
It’s the phone vibrating with updates
on a business deal so close
it feels like holding your breath underwater.

It’s watching your family leave for the vacation
you insisted they take,
masking the hollow ache of having to stay behind

having to nurture along the hopeful closing of a business deal.

It’s seeing them off and standing in the airport line now,
rolling their luggage forward
inch by inch
behind a man in a wheelchair
who apologizes each time he moves,
as if slowness were a sin.
You say take your time,
and mean it,
because you know the challenge to move
when life demands more
than the body can deliver.

II.

Next day…
Patience sits beside you
in conference rooms drenched in fluorescent daylight,

 partners pace,
 numbers shift like weather on a map.
It threads itself through your daughter’s voice
on the phone hundreds of miles away,
that bright, stormy, beautiful age
where her heart beats outrun expressions.

Later both wife and child’s voices hum through late-night texts
their photos warm as a hand on your cheek,
reminding you that duty
is not the opposite of devotion,
only its quieter twin.

III.
And patience softens again for several nights
when you step into your house,
quiet but not empty,
because the dog barrels toward you
with a joy that doesn’t ask
where you’ve been
or why your shoulders sag.
You set your briefcase down
next to the miniature-gardenia on the table,
sent overnight by your wife.
Your flower.
Her flower.
The scent from your wedding day
still a reminder inside its petals
even after twenty years.
You touch its leaves like a memory reborn,
a promise growing slowly
but faithfully.

IV.
Finally, patience settles inside the self,
a bedroom made private for awhile.

You stand in the mirror,
fifty now,
not old,
just learning the new language
your body speaks.
A stiffness here,
a quieter strength there,
changes like dusk arriving
earlier than it used to.
You breathe,
accepting the pace.

And when the house feels too large
for one heartbeat,
the dog steps forward,
leans his warm weight into your legs,
lifts his face
with that soft-eyed certainty,
and offers a slow, companionable lick of your hand,
a small grace that says
without words,
You’re all right.

Patience…

It’s all good.