Waiting, We
by Renee Gilmore
Waiting, we
held hands
we shifted on hard plastic seats
we flipped through old golf magazines, seeing only the ads
we excused the doctor for running late
we listened politely
we went home
We opened the cupboards then closed them,
looking for answers among cereal boxes and soup cans
we drove the convertible around the lake, searching the perfect blue sky
we forgot about the biopsy, then remembered
we left the milk out on the counter
we chatted with friends and pretended we were cheerful
we hid the pamphlets inside the junk drawer
we misplaced the remote and changed the channels by hand
we sorted all the socks in the laundry basket
we laid on the bed and watched the ceiling fan, without talking
We wondered, closing our eyes, if there was something
worse than fear
we flinched when the phone rang
we washed the same clothes twice
we searched for reassurance
we quarreled
we aired out the house
we lit candles at church
we lit candles at home
We went to a movie and left our popcorn
untouched
we cried behind the bathroom door
we reached for each other in the dark
we ate hot fudge sundaes with salty pecans
we forgot to put out the garbage
we gave up on sleep
we picked at weeds in the yard
we avoided the internet
We counted our blessings
and did not feel closer to God
we considered absence, but never spoke of it
We drank pots of strong coffee and read the paper
we watched a Little League game, with a catch in our throats
we told ourselves different versions of the same truth
we marked off the fifth day, then the sixth
On the seventh day, we woke to the sound of the wind.
held hands
we shifted on hard plastic seats
we flipped through old golf magazines, seeing only the ads
we excused the doctor for running late
we listened politely
we went home
We opened the cupboards then closed them,
looking for answers among cereal boxes and soup cans
we drove the convertible around the lake, searching the perfect blue sky
we forgot about the biopsy, then remembered
we left the milk out on the counter
we chatted with friends and pretended we were cheerful
we hid the pamphlets inside the junk drawer
we misplaced the remote and changed the channels by hand
we sorted all the socks in the laundry basket
we laid on the bed and watched the ceiling fan, without talking
We wondered, closing our eyes, if there was something
worse than fear
we flinched when the phone rang
we washed the same clothes twice
we searched for reassurance
we quarreled
we aired out the house
we lit candles at church
we lit candles at home
We went to a movie and left our popcorn
untouched
we cried behind the bathroom door
we reached for each other in the dark
we ate hot fudge sundaes with salty pecans
we forgot to put out the garbage
we gave up on sleep
we picked at weeds in the yard
we avoided the internet
We counted our blessings
and did not feel closer to God
we considered absence, but never spoke of it
We drank pots of strong coffee and read the paper
we watched a Little League game, with a catch in our throats
we told ourselves different versions of the same truth
we marked off the fifth day, then the sixth
On the seventh day, we woke to the sound of the wind.
Renee Gilmore is a poet and essayist. She writes about her experiences growing up poor in a small town in the Midwest, and she fearlessly explores the illusion of happiness. She identifies as a person with a disability. A corporate trainer by day, she received her bachelor’s degree from the University of New Mexico, and her master’s degree from Hamline University. She has traveled to all seven continents, and has a special place in her heart for places with nice people and fried chicken. When not writing, she is likely having a third cup of coffee and planning her next adventure.