The Waiting
written by: Carrie Farrar
Recognition, she thought,
as if it were practice,
an instrument long unplayed.
But silence is not rest;
it is a muscle left trembling,
the ghost of motion without music.
What part of me has been waiting the longest?
The child, perhaps,
the one who held her breath
until the world remembered she was still in the room.
Her small hands learned stillness
like others learn scales.
What would she say, if seen?
Not much at first,
a startle, a pulse of light behind the ribs.
Then maybe: You came back.
Maybe: I never stopped humming.
There is a hunger beyond language,
a wolf-color of wanting,
pressed against the ribs for years.
When the door finally opens,
the air rushes in like fire finding oxygen,
and the body, once its own hiding place,
becomes home again.
- The Waiting - December 6, 2025
