Waiting

I’m in a tunnel, a tunnel that narrows and narrows until there’s no going back, no room, in fact, to even turn around. I can only go forward, toward a small circle of light and silence, where the tunnel starts to widen, to open out into the larger world again. 

You’re also in a narrow place, a place where you too can no longer turn around, a place where you are pushed inexorably down, down, toward a small circle of light and silence. We will meet there, when the waiting is over.

A circle of silence. Silence after the noise of pain that will roar in my brain. Silence after the noise of the speeding car, the bustling emergency room, the beeping elevator. Silence after the noise of my cries and then your own.

A circle of light. In the middle of the darkened room, the circle will contain only your eyes and mine. In yours, that glimpse of eternity. In mine, a glimpse of the holy now, a moment that is only and completely itself, with nothing else intruding. That small circle of light, which will grow to include your whole body and mine, and then your father, beloved partner, and then the midwife, wise counselor, and finally the nurse, mother to us all, working in the background, who will dry you off, wrap you up, return you like a gift.

Waiting. A tunnel. Two funnels, glued together, narrow end to narrow end. In the beginning, a great swirl of activity, so many preparations. And at the end, more flurry. But for now, in the middle, it’s all done. There isn’t even any thinking left to do. There’s only waiting.  The world is curiously distant. My task is to embrace this waiting, push impatience from me, remember that I’m not alone. You’re waiting too. And the distant world holds its breath.