It’s Monday night and I sit here on the floor of the hospice waiting room. The floor feels solid underneath me. Solid ground is good; it’s something that I can count on. I lean against the wall, letting down my hair for the first time since this morning’s shower. It is still damp, and probably looks a mess, but removing the clip allows me to rest my head against the wall. I like being held up; it is a nice change.
I breath deeply and take in the quiet. All of the support groups are in session. The doors are closed, leaving YaYa and I to ourselves. He lies on the floor in front of me, finishing his homework. It is fun to watch him as he concentrates fully on his spelling, careful to put forth his very best cursive for his teacher. She calls her students "scholars" and he takes the title seriously.
I want to be quiet enough to hear myself think, but there is no chance in that. The air blowing through the vent is one of the few sounds that can be heard initially. If you get quiet enough, however, the cars rushing past on the freeway, the people moving about upstairs, and an occasional laugh (or cry) can be heard as well. I try hard to hear my thoughts, but instead I am aware of more, and more noises.
YaYa is now rustling his papers; he is bouncing all over trying to avoid the next assignment. The janitor is busy emptying the trash cans, someone is walking past the window talking on her cellular phone, and I think there is a T Rex walking around upstairs. It brings back memories of trying to study in the library and being bugged by turning pages, ticking clocks, and people sighing.
Oh well, I guess thinking will have to wait for another day.
i love that thought- removing your hair clip to be held up by the wall.
i hope the wall keeps doing that for you!