Waiting Room

There's a man in the waiting room much older than myself. His hands shake, calloused and wrinkled. They're just hands but yet, they look naked. Perhaps a ring was there once, but long gone now for sure. His brow could use a trim. The back of his neck is silver and unruly. Life weighs on the unnatural curve of his spine; The earth pulls on him — tapping an invisible pocket watch that hangs over everyone's head. I see how his tears would fall, in the groves of his face. Like a river carving a canyon, 'til one day it evaporates and all that's left, is a cliff. Despite the pain in his eyes, and the grief stuck under his nails. The death in his teeth. I'm jealous. And yes, there is anger in his heart. He's reminded of it with every beat. I watch it kill him, slowly. As he waits to be seen. But he's still there and I still envy, the way he carries his years at his sides. Yes, his joints creak, but they have been used. He feels that pain because he lived. And that's a luxury he'll never understand. And one that I'm selfish to hold against him. I'd give anything, to have lived a life so profound. He has cried tears that I will never understand, but isn't that the beauty of living? To feel the emotions which make us human. At least his funeral won't be in the company of his own parents. It's unfair. I know. Comparing myself to a stranger. I could devote the rest of this life to learning empathy, and yet I'd still be here. Resenting an old man, for having lived, when I couldn't. “waiting room” - Ruby Laurin