The Waiting

"The Waiting"


As I remember, it was extremely cold. My older brother and I were to wait outside for Shaun. He was going to pick us up.

Appearing to sit atop a thick blanket of snow, our gray shingled two-bedroom house stood out. Take away the other weathered dwellings surrounding it, our house resembled a depleted dust bowl structure, which nowadays if taken in black and white would win photographers acclaim.

Tightly bundled in our second-hand coats we stood facing the direction Shaun would come. My brother Iboroh made two trips inside to call Shaun. The first time, he said, Shaun said, “I’m on my way.” The second time, Iboroh said there was no answer.

We waited until we could not wait any longer. Shaun was over an hour late. We went back inside and slung off our coats, pulled our mittens off with our teeth, hung up our scarves and struggled, but succeeded, in removing our goulashes.

I was confused—what happened to Shaun?
It never occurred to me he would not show.

Newly arrived in America, we would have to wait a little longer to see our first football game. The game was not so important it was just another of the many strange things we had not done.

Back then everything was new. The food was new. The cold was new. Our clothes though not new, were different, and in that fact, were new to us. Back then, even getting stood up was new.