My Life As a Waiting Room

My life as a waiting room:
Seems to me that I’ve spent a lot of time waiting. Mostly waiting for folks to show up. The earliest of memories have me standing at the full-glass front door peeking at the corner where the main road clears the grove of Ole’s evergreens in an effort to spot my wayward friend barreling towards my house. He was being delivered via his mother in a Hershey brown Oldsmobile. Besides times like those, there were the stretches of summer afternoons or winter evenings where I, bursting with anticipation, would saunter around the yard waiting for the sisters to come outside and act as playmates if only for a little while.

I want a surprise in my next friend, but I’m afraid I can’t have that for I always have both eyes open, using them to constantly check at the window for an arriving. Just try to sneak up on me Miss Wonderful, I dare you, because everywhere I go I’m looking.

Am I fated to find myself in wait for hours a day, every day; Lethargically kicking rocks down the sidewalk, methodically reading the buzzer names in her apartment lobby, and routinely leaning against the headrest with my eyes closed, listening to the car stereo all in an effort to pass the hour-like minutes prior to the arrival of my friend?

I’ve seen all of them coming because I was there first.