Friday, June 21, 2013

The Trauma of Waiting

The yogurt store in the Taco Hills strip mall in Atlanta is fondly called "Menches."

It was there that I waited for my daughter to come and pick me up.

We had made the plan earlier in the day, but now, at 7:30 in the evening, a brave rainstorm with howling winds abruptly changed the calm into a torrent of disasters.

Perhaps she hadn’t left her home yet.
Perhaps she took cover under a bridge.
Perhaps she will be late and that will be okay.
Perhaps something or nothing happened.

The chocolate, cold, yummy yogurt tingled my tongue, and I took notice.

Should I call or text her? I did neither.

A short and sincere prayer would give me comfort. I whispered it. I refused to look at the time. Time did not matter. I watched the glass door open, bringing unfamiliar drenched people into our contained space.

I choked on my chocolate, cold, yummy yogurt.

I waited until . . .

I saw her purple raincoat precede her.
She was safe but shaken.
I ceased my ruminations.
I breathed myself into serenity.

The tornado had touched down and was gone.

The trauma, however, stays long after the rainbow appears.

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