Waiting

Illustration - Quentin Blake, one of my favourites

It turned 10.30, and people started drifting in. A few solitary lights lit up the windows, but no one moved inside. Someone came out, one more hour, she said. We sat on his brother’s scooter, playing a guitar and singing because that is what all of us do when we are together. People called, phones rang, a light went off, a gate opened.

We spattered forward, moved back. False alarms, bathroom breaks, the principal went in. We watched for the slightest sign that our vigil could end, gaping at the shadowy oompa loompa figures behind the windows. One more hour.

You were sitting in her room, waiting. Bated breath; acid reflux; too much F&H coffee; too much more riding on this than you would have liked.

12 am and it should have been done by now. Now the windows were opening so they could gape at our vicarious nervousness. Someone inside walked over and drank a glass of water. Some people left. Soon, very soon.

A door screeched inside. Fifteen more minutes passed and we clothed them in conjecture. The board descended and we rose to intercept it.


You made it.


But, of course.