I’m sitting on a hard chair in
winter’s waiting room, impatiently crossing and uncrossing my legs swinging my feet, and sighing, knowing that my appointment is scheduled for a few months from now, but wondering how much longer spring is going to make me wait. The receptionist is throwing me icy glances, as she discontentedly flips through a bright summer magazine, and stifles a yawn, her exhale coating the wall with icicles.
This is a stark cold room, chilly both in temperature, and decoration the winter light glares off of the cold counters, white walls, squeaky seats covered in some glossy white fabric, looking for all the world like ice cubes. Who thought to decorate with snow, and bare branches, cheap that’s what they are… where is the sunshine, and warmth…
I’m sure that down the hall Spring’s waiting room is full of flowers bursting through the walls, birds chirping.
I’m tired of waiting, I get up and peek through a window towards the parking lot, I can see into Summer’s softly glowing room, I’d much rather be there enjoying myself… but I am here. In winter’s waiting room, waiting for spring to show up, and take me down the hall.
It’s a good thing I brought my seed catalogues to read.because I’m going to be spending a long time in winter’s waiting room.