Waiting

Boys climb over the couch fort,
bedtime t-shirts from dad sliding off shoulders and
parachuting around skinny legs
"Get dressed. School starts. Get dressed."
They hide in the shirts like turtles and pretend not to hear.
I wait.

My inbox is still empty.
No news from the publishers, no response to my query,
empty but for the daily schedule Google sends each morning.
I delete it with out looking.

More waiting.
For the laundry, for school to get out, for kids to get in the car and buckle. . .
Two weeks until everything changes again.
A new home, a new place we haven't found yet.
We search for answers, but nothing is right.
and there's nothing to do but wait.

The waiting is like the sun; too hot the last few days.
It makes me sleepy. It makes me cranky.
But I keep finding myself sitting out in it.

While I wait for bedtime prayers, the boys,
wearing the huge t-shirts again,
lay themselves flat on the sidewalk,
bare legs and toes in the air, faces inches from the ground.
They pick at bugs; ants, rolly-polies.
I realize I could watch forever.
Orange sunset pours through the cul-de-sac houses.
They run the front yard and race down the sidewalk.
Some memories are worth waiting for.

The first time I feel movement inside me
I'm waiting.
At the doctor's, static from the heart monitor gives way.
Thump, thump, thump.
The sound is beautiful.
I'm waiting.