Waiting is easier for me. I read the papers and enjoy the peace. After years out at sea, the solid earth calms me. My concept of time is very different. To her a day is a long time, a week a very long time. She comes up with a million different ‘do you think…’ and expects me to respond to every one. I try to indulge her but oftentimes it’s draining.
Guilt makes me patient. I never encouraged her to take time out to live for herself. To the contrary, it was my belief that with one parent away, the children deserved the undivided focus of the other. So she did. She gave them her everything. They grew into beautiful smart confident adults.
Then they went on to live their lives.
She was left purposeless, aimless, spending the week obsessively tending to house, and the weekend obsessively waiting for them.
I watch her straighten the chairs again.
Waiting on my own is simple. Waiting with her is exhausting.
In Response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, 114th Challenge
Photo Prompt by Yarnspinner