Waiting

Me, not you.

Though maybe you are waiting for something, too.

I’ve waited 50 years, writing snippets, wasting time. Not that friends were a waste, or London and New York, or Over the Rhine at the Warehouse. Also not a waste: a job with the airlines; a 1920s Dutch Colonial; a (Corgi/Dane/Shepherd/Hound) dog; reading Ulysses with Ian Ousby and talking faith with Dr. Jordan. None of it a waste, after all.

But writing calls, just like that tuned piano or loaf of fresh hot bread.

And so I answer. Come along for the ride.

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