Waiting

They'd be patient. They were always patient. They would wait for her in the terminal, knowing she'd be annoyed if they waited by the track gate. "I'm not a child," she'd told them once. "You don't have to hover by the gate waiting for me."

So they would wait in the terminal, standing there with a bovine patience that would also annoy her. She'd suggested they wait for her at home, that she'd get there just fine. But it was important to them that they be there to meet her. It was important to them to make the effort, to get themselves ready and travel to the station and wait for their daughter to arrive. It was important to them, and because it was important she couldn't bring herself to insist they stay home.

During the visit they'd struggle to find things to talk about. Her mother would prepare the meals that had been her favorites fifteen years earlier. Her father would ask about the maintenance of her car. She'd learn which of her high school friends had recently had another baby. Nobody would mention politics or religion, and her parents would very carefully avoid asking her if she was dating anybody or why she wasn't married.

When the visit was over, they would get themselves ready and travel to the station and wait for their daughter to leave again. They'd wait in the terminal, mute with love, while their daughter wandered off to find her train.

posted by greg @ 11:43 AM