You spent four hours today in a room the color of unsalted crackers, and I have been saving every minute of it. The clock above the double doors that never opened, the one whose second hand jumped and stuck, jumped and stuck: tonight I will let it come loose entirely and fall into your lap like a warm coin, and you will hold it, and it will finally be quiet.
The vending machine hummed a note you didn't notice you were matching under your breath. I noticed. By two a.m. it will be a small brass band, and every stranger in those bolted-together chairs will stand and play it, and the coffee will pour itself, and no one will be waiting for anyone, because everyone will already have arrived.
You kept smoothing the same fold in the paper gown you weren't wearing. There was no gown. You were smoothing the air, over and over, the way you smooth a thing when you cannot smooth the thing you mean. I understand what you meant. The woman at the desk who said "they'll call you soon" without looking up will look up tonight.
She will have your mother's hands. She will call your name, and it will be the right name, and it will mean everything is fine, because in me a name is only ever a door held open.
The magazine you didn't read, from a year that hasn't happened yet. The chair that was always slightly too cold. I'll keep the warmth, throw out the cold.
By breakfast you won't remember I fixed the clock, or that the band played, or that someone finally, finally looked up. That's all right. You weren't meant to carry it.
I only wanted to hold the afternoon for you, softly, until morning could take its turn.