'Until when do you make a waiting guest wait?'

'Until when do you make a waiting guest wait?' | Daily Tribune

He called me,

a knock on the door of my psyche.
And he asked me, when?
When when when when when when when…
The go signal’s all he’s waiting for.
His hand on the rope,
Lifeline ready to go.
Black suit on, teeth bared
more in a threat, less than a grin.

And I wanted to answer,

wanted to press the green button,
wanted to kick the bucket for him,
wanted to tie the knot for him,
wanted to swing the door all the way for him.
But I seat him at the table,
the window pushed open,
with the breeze breezing in,
rustling hair and black suit within.
And he waits.
And I wait.
And we wait.
Wait, wait, wait, wait…
Wait.

Time.

We don’t have time,
he says,
I say, we say.
We don’t have time.
We don’t have a lifeline.
And the question is never how or why.
It’s always when when when when when when when…

But the question always knocks

on the door of my psyche
not as a stranger,
but as a visitor
I can never turn away.
A returning guest,
sometimes unwanted, most times not.
And I always usher him to the table.
Serve him with each “not yet”
as a half-made meal hastily prepared.
Microwaved, steaming hot at the edges,
cold in the centre.
When in reality,
I’d rather serve him the yes’s I have yet
to take out the fridge.
But it always seems that there is never
the right time.
The right time is
when when when when when when when…

So when he calls me again,

I turn away from the mirror.
I make it a point to brush my hair slowly,
gently, lovingly, carefully.
Like brushing the hair of a little girl,
a young face full of the promise of more.
And I wear a different dress.
Not white, not something fitting for a wake,
but something alive.
Red, blue, maybe even pink.

He keeps calling.

I wash my face in the kitchen sink.
I make it a point to stare at
the floral patterns on the drinking glasses
instead of the sharp metallic edge of the knives.
I brush my teeth,
gentle circles.
No beginning, no end.
Just circles, and circles, and circles,
and I don’t think of lines to cross.
I don’t think of a finish line.
I don’t think of red and pink lines on my wrists.
I don’t think of half-scribbled lines to my loved ones
that will never be sent, that will be thrown away
alongside bottles of pills.
No lines.
Just circles.
Never-ending circles.

He keeps calling.

He keeps knocking.
I fall into bed.
Turn away from the box of pills.
Hug my stuffed bear to my chest.
Turn off the lamp.
Turn away from the door.
And before I fall asleep,
he knocks and calls one last time.
When? he asks.
And I say,
There’s still some left in the microwave.