'Til She Stops Waiting

Independence Day always finds her by the train station. She is standing, fidgeting, taking deep breaths. She is not certain what to wait for. Every surge of new passengers make her look up, half-expectant, half-hoping.

She does that even without news, maybe it comes up when she leaves the house. She does that even when rain falls, the subway has lots of covered area anyhow. And she does that even when she always goes home alone.

For how long she can wait, she does not know. But she's sure she'll be doing so for a very long time. Until, probably, she gets a letter like Suzan's got.

It came on Independence Day, too. Right before they stepped out to go to the station. Suzan used to go with her and wait all day. She waited for Suzan to finish reading. But Suzan folded the letter and said she wouldn't be coming along anymore. Suzan never went with her again.

She waits for that letter, somehow. She would until the time comes when the military head would write and make her stop waiting, too. For that day, though, and for the next Independence Days, she would be there.

Waiting for that uniform-clad man who's stopped writing to her when news has broke out that a new set of rebels are brought into the mountains. That man who's told her he'd be back. Even when, even if she stops waiting.

Photo by: Thomas Lieser