By Sarah Stoltzfus Allen
I can’t help but feel sorry for the poor saps who do nothing but sit and wait. Waiting doesn’t come
natural to me. But waiting, it’s what I do. Waiting for Mama to come back home. Waiting for her to get sick. Waiting for her to get better. Waiting for her to leave. Waiting for her to die. I finally got tired of waiting and put a little too much of her crushed up pills in her bottle of Johnny Walker (or whatever her flavor of the day happened to be that morning) and waited one last time.
“Where’s your treasure, young lady?” Those were the last words I would ever hear slur out of her mouth.
“I’m not a lady, Mama. Never been one.” I looked one last time at her thin body as it laid there in them dirty sheets. Once her eyes closed and her chest stopped moving, I headed for the train station.