BROWN ROOM IN The White House
I was 4 when my cat was attacked by the neighbor's dog. She was being thrown around like a
chew toy in my front yard. I ran into the house for my parents’ help. I ran in, loud, dramatic.
Unconcerned with what was happening inside. It was an emergency. "Shhhhhhh, this is
important. We are watching this." The news. Politics. The noise of politics takes up space. MY
It was 1974. The news of Tricky Dick’s White House.
I froze. I waited.
My spacetime came. It was too late.
That night, my cat sat in the disposal side of the sterile, stainless steel sink. Panting. In
pain. Dying. No vet. No pain killer. No mercy killing. I sat in the sink hole next to hers.
Not wanting her to be alone.
Waiting for her to no longer suffer.
Waiting with my cat, knowing suffering comes and goes, and all we can do is listen and
The waiting to be heard.
The waiting for the death.
Death, the consequence of waiting.
It changed me inside.
My four year old self.
I was the only one uninterested in Tricky Dick.
I was the only one in the second sinkhole.
I am, still, the only one listening.
MY life would be full of waiting for others to discover, to learn, to "get it".
MY role was to wait and let them learn.
I became the master of waiting.
My hip soldier tells me when I wait too long.
It reminds me that not everyone lives a life defined by this purpose.
It whispers to me "Some people will take advantage of your waiting."
Sometimes waiting is beautiful.
Sometimes waiting is compassionate.
Sometimes waiting is a slow fuck.
Sometimes waiting is rape.
Sometimes waiting is death.
It is funny, the ways life teaches us to discern subtle meanings.
I don’t want to learn this,
and I don’t want to wait.