Faces disappear from memory, outlines become ghosts, but hands I never forget.
Someday I’ll explain the anxiety, how it conjures dark characters, despairing energy, and fading blackness in thunderous clouds intent to water the void of inky reason before tying it to crosses of uncanny freedom. Someday. Maybe. If it helps.
Right now though I’ll share a prayer, one I prayed for you and me, because I’m a waiter, something a large part of the world frowns upon, something i once frowned upon also.
But a waiter isn’t necessarily lazy, uninspired, and moving about directionless. Sometimes a waiter has been moved so much, that they’ve learned to find value in the current, and not only the present.
I was in bed fretting about the state of things and how some of the promises I’d made to myself seemed insurmountable. But it was accompanied by a memory, a time when I didn’t think I’d walk again. Doctors said I wouldn’t be able to sit upright in a chair so I bought a ball instead, and at first could take no more than two minutes before giving into the pain. Every day I’d sit on that ball, and every day I withstood the pain just a little longer, until one day it was clear that strength and pain had merged, long already a part of me, and the act of sitting became ‘normal’ once again.
It made me smile, lying there in tears realizing that I was working to turn anxiety into that ball, when it wasn’t the ball that built my strength. So I prayed for something else.
I prayed for two minutes not to give up, and I prayed the same for you. I don’t know where anyone’s heart really is; I only know how much it sometimes hurts for me to sit and wait. I know also what happens when the waiting is over, and how standing occurs without warning, without applause, and when no one is looking.
So the next night I prayed for five seconds to glimpse your face once again, then for five minutes to hold your hand so you could feel the love in my heart’s ovation. No one was looking, and I slept in peace.
I hope you did too.