Walking up the sidewalk to a home I used to live in many years ago,

The wooden door swings open and my eyes adjust to what was once familiar, is now quite changed.

As I enter my past home of 18 years, I notice, there are many rooms and hallways.

Winding around a few corners, I stop in what appears to be the center of this elongated home in a narrow room with hardwood floors with white ship lap walls.

The picture-less walls are painted in Navajo White. The room’s contents contain one azure blue two-seater fabric sofa along the right side of the room with a rectangular window above it. There are no curtains. The window frame is thin, black metal.

Just beyond the position of the sofa, is a four-legged antique kitchen table, circa 1960 with a clay red top and a single seam in the middle.

The ceiling, white bead board. There are no rugs on the floor, nothing on the table or sofa. There’s a view from the narrow window of the treetops only and the house is silent.

A friend of mine now lives here. I’m quite surprised at how she has each room designated for a particular purpose. A living room. A writing room. A kitchen. A bedroom, bathroom. I’m asking myself what is this room? It finally dawns on me, this is the waiting room.

This dream of the Waiting Room represents to me a time of introspection, a time to be still, a time to evaluate purpose and direction of life. Is a call to slow down and pause. A time of transition.

©Anita Adams 12/2017