In the waiting room

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."                   -- Lao Tzu

I walk past a sign of this quote hanging in the hallway of the hospital's surgery floor. Darrell,
Latoya's only child, has a firm grip on my right hand. In my left hand is the bible my Grandmother Nancy carried with her most places until the day she died. Over either shoulder I support the weight of my emotions, as varied as they can be and as heavy and deep as they currently reside.

"Uncle, where are we going?" "For a walk Darrell. Let's go take a look out at the night skyline." I really just needed to get away from the cramped waiting area where we were sitting. My sister's condition has taken a turn that has raised everyone's attention, thereby raising the tension level to an unbearable amount.

My mother talks with family members, about something, everything, nothing. Anything to release the pressure in the room. My father sits back in his chair, falling into his thoughts. I'll leave him there for a few minutes, I need to go for a walk.

The view out of this ceiling-to-floor window in the elevator lobby isn't that great at all. In the distance there is a faint view of the bridge I wrote about my mother not wanting to cross, when she had "Salt and Pepper Locks." The hair she has left is mostly grey now, she cut it about six months ago.

My father looks over the top of bifocals as he speaks now. I see the lines across his forehead that only time can bring. Time is like the tide, constantly moving, never resting. It moves in toward land, then back out to sea again. The events of the past few days have been like a tidal flow.

Our family stand at the shore, waiting to see if high tide will bring our Toya back to us. Or if low tide intends to take her out the horizon of eternity. I can't just sit here and wait. I have to do something, so I walk. I bring Darrell with me to try and give his mind something else to focus on. He knows something is off. "Uncle, I can see my mommy through the window." "No you can't Darrell." We walk on and go down the elevator into the lobby before we realize we cannot go any farther. It's after hours at the hospital and most areas are now closed.

So we go back up to the cramped waiting room. The tiny room with my dad thinking and my mother talking and we wait. Maybe that's what people with courage do, they wait.