Remembrance of my father
I was on the bus traveling home from work. At one of the the stops a young man got on, I barely noticed him as I continued to stare out of the window. He sat in the seat opposite me. Then I noticed something so strong, so familiar and at the same time out of place, it belonged to my distant past, my childhood. It was my father home from work, covered in sawdust brushing it off as I ran to meet him. It was the smell of freshly cut wood. I greedily breathed it in, that fresh, rich scent of of pine and oak. I stole a glance at the young man he had wood dust on his legs and boots.
Again I took a deep breath of that sweet aroma and for a moment I was with my father again.
For me waiting has always been associated with unpleasantness. Interminable waits in doctor's offices or hospital waiting rooms where life becomes frozen except for the anxious working of the mind fighting with itself to stay strong and positive while anticipating inevitable disappointment. This waiting is torture for the mind and spirit, life stops completely with no relief until my name is called. But that is only a brief respite, I'm taken to another room and made to wait again. After it seems like it will never happen the Doctor finally appears and apologizes for "the wait", I say "no problem."