Waiting for Irene

Seven-thirty. The waiting room still holds last night’s silence.

Morning light finds the first chair.

Then the second.

The third.

Each chair briefly chosen, briefly golden—
illuminating the worn spot
where ten thousand hands have gripped the armrest,
waiting for their names.

Here, before the day begins,
light understands what we forget—
that waiting is its own country,
with its own quiet citizenship.

Now the light moves on.

Across the coffee table where magazines lie face-down, unread.

Reaches the clock that measures different time here—
minutes thick as honey, hours that skip heartbeats.

Touches the reception desk—
empty chair pushed back, computer screen dark,
appointment book closed on yesterday’s sorrows.

Then sunrise proper.

Full beams now streaming through the window,
and the room is no longer empty.

Mrs. Kokoska adjusts her purse strap for the third time.

The young father bounces his knee,
checking his phone like prayer beads.

But now the full sun finds their faces. Slowly.

Softens the worry lines,
makes strangers into fellow travelers
sharing the same uncertain country.

Mrs. Kokoska glances at the father.
He looks up from his phone.

A small nod passes between them—
citizens recognizing citizenship.

By noon, they’re gone.

New names called, new stories unfolding in the same worn chairs.

The businessman with coffee stains.
The teenager twisting her ring.
The elderly man who brings his own magazine,
already surrendered to a longer wait.

And still the light moves, crossing the room again,
blessing each new face with the same patient attention.

By evening, it retreats—
inch by inch across the floor, up the far wall,
until only shadows remain,
and the chairs sit empty again, holding tomorrow’s silence.