Over-eager (a poem)

I am terrible at waiting.
I am pretty sure there
isn’t a patient
piece of me.

When I was six years old
I asked for a dachshund
for Christmas and
when the morning came
I woke up hours too
early and made my way
to the top of our
basement staircase—
my brother and I having
slept down there for
whatever reason.

I knew better than
to venture out
to the living room
and tree
but I pressed myself
full body up against the door,
ear pressed to the painted wood,
listening for the slightest
rustle of new life.
And I stayed there,
wriggling, painfully eager,
obnoxiously impatient,
till they finally let us out.

There is no wisdom here.
I am only saying that
I’m no good at Holy Saturday,
and I spend it every year,
like every other waiting
moment of my life,
with my full body
pressed against the door,
listening for the first
sure, certain sign of life.

I think maybe Jesus is
a little impatient too.
I mean his whole life
and ministry were all
a fairly fast-paced rush.
And really, it was 3 days
only barely.

So, I take some comfort
in imagining him
on the other side,
mirroring me,
full-body pressed
against that door
from death to life,
waiting for the first
discernible second
of dawn.

And we are both
whispering over and over,
“I can’t wait.”

One thought on “Over-eager (a poem)

  1. Pingback: All The Poems I Wrote in Lent | Reverend Fem

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