You Waited Long Enough

You waited in the rental car while I ran into the Dollar General Store for Imodium so you could eat ice cream late. You feared public bathrooms. I feared you’d run off or into the road.

You waited the length of my mother’s life to see me. Once a year after that for three years in a row.

We waited our turn.

A lifetime passed before your turn came. Once a year for three years in a row I visited you in the spring. Before Florida sweltered. Was scoured by hurricanes.

Decades passed and we waited to scrape the waxy paper cups with plastic spoons for the last drops of sweetness.

I waited for the only person with a phone at the house where you lived to understand who I was and why I was calling. It took years to dig that ditch.

You waited to be called and taken behind the door that opens onto a corridor of shiny floors and dim lights and more doors. You waited in a room on a table covered in paper. You waited for the click outside the door when the chart was removed. You waited alone.

We waited for the polite knock and immediate entry. We waited to heal and for the hurt to pass.

You waited your whole life to get out. To be let loose. To be you without that being a problem for everyone else.

I waited before I said you were going home to your twin bed and bible when we both hoped you were going home to your father’s arms. Not the father that didn’t respect you, the one we could only love dead.

It was easy to love you. As long as I did not have to take care of you. We waited for Mom to die so I could turn my attention to you. For three years in a row. We softened.

I waited to hear what the Holy Spirit would say through you. You waited and wagged and worried. That important voice wanted you to say things you shouldn’t: No Beginning, No End, regrets, and desires.

You waited for my disapproval but told me anyway. You were surprised by my love.

I waited for your reaction when I told you I love you. You contracted as a snail sprinkled with salt. Tenderized. You thanked me and asked if I came to see you and only you. My answer waited inside. Of course, I did, Dad spilled out. You thanked me.

I love you, Dad. I waited for you to say you loved me, too. That came at the end.

We waited for our ice cream sundaes at a cement bench at a cement table in the shade of the cabbage palms.

You waited long enough. You got out.