waiting room

All things turn to wax in the room's paper light. Hands thumb through glossed pages; eyes coax the shy minute hand. A door swings, then laughter comes trailing ribbons of June sun. Brother and sister, mop heads and Croc feet, shadow their grizzled father.

It is a Monday morning in early summer and so they laugh and laugh. The father signs in at the desk while his two tousled ducklings crowd him, yet privy to a world of legs and looming countertops. The boy's head swivels and I find his gaze–so blue and sweet and open.

Then he raises his small hand and waves: a slight wiggle of fingers curled into the palm. I mirror the gesture and it is as if we've bridged miles between us. The ceiling cracks, the clock stills, the wax people fade, and the white-fire day washes in when we smile.