Written by Ken Carman
He’s keeping me waiting.
He always keeps everyone waiting.
He never would keep an appointment. He shows up at the worst times. No one ever wants to see him, except those who wait too damn long. Then they long to see him, they ache; sometimes they demand. And still he keeps them waiting. Is he a “he?” Have you checked under the black cloak? I haven’t.
Both my father and my mother waited so long they fell apart, her with cancer, him with third degree burns and diabetes. The doctors kept taking them apart: piece by piece, while they waited.
He teases, he torments, he laughs the cruelest of laughter.
Now it’s my turn. What else did I expect, except that he would keep me waiting? I’m in so much pain. I can’t be a pleasure to have around and know many around me secretly wish he’d finally show the hell up. Curtain call, Death! It’s your damn cue. Where the HELL are you?
Finally. What kept you? Go ahead. Let me have that last… scythe… of relief.
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