Many years ago, I remember this old lady waited for her son to pick her up from the 42nd street bus station. He showed up 6 hours later; She hadn’t move from her spot the whole time. But she smiled at him. No ‘what took you so long?’ No sounds that hinted at a complaint. Nothing. She held her smile as her son picked her suitcase up and commanded ‘Let’s go.’ I don’t remember him saying hello, giving her a hug, or anything that would prove he was related to her. I know it was her son because I helped her call the little prick from a payphone.
I hate waiting. I hate those who make me wait. Now I can decide not to wait and go back home or anywhere else. But I’d hate to be old, unable to function like a normal person…and having to wait. Because I’d have to be at the mercy of someone whose heart pumps better or whose joints swing faster.
Seeing this woman above at a different bus station, almost a decade later – even looking at this picture right now – reminded me of all the people I ended up hating for making me wait. Including that prick.