Tick. Tick. Tick. Pick. Pick. Pick.

So my dad came up to Saginaw on Tuesday to get me my medicine, and to see Sam and what not.  He told me to call him in the morning and confirm.  I did, but it went straight to voicemail...I called again, voicemail.  I don't think too much of it because I was under the impression that he would be at my house around 3.  Three o'clock rolls around and I find myself 4 feet tall again, braces, glasses and a mullet, peeking through the blinds every five minutes, waiting to see if he had arrived. A car door would slam, and I would jump.  Little five-year-old me, drenched in eagerness and excitement.  If I close my eyes I can still see it, still hear it...

Propped up on the couch with my head glued to the window, eyes whizzing

 left and right with every car that sped past, knowing it was in vain.  The haunting

tick, tick, tick of our mantle clock a constant reminder that time wasn't standing still

for me, not now, not tonight.  This night, like so many others, had started as an 

afternoon, and had agonizingly progressed into an evening, and then, into a night.

It had become a night with a book, nestled into our lazy boy, under our giant 

floor lamp.  Just me and my vivid imagination, my best and constant friend.  As the 

moments ticked away, I would lull myself into a daze, rocking in the chair, and 

picking at my face, the same spot I'd been working on for a week like some kind of

overdue pet project.  Of course, my little mind had no idea any of this was transpiring, 

it was just...me.  Some days when the windows were open, I would feel the Michigan

breeze dance across my face, causing my tears to draw little squiggly lines down my

rosy cheeks.  This was the position I found myself in for probably a decade.  Always

waiting for something different, always waiting for the prince to show up, but 

he never did.   At fourteen, in my homecoming dress, heels and make-up, I found

myself in this same position, desperately trying to ignore the clock, despite its ever

present hourly chimes, reminding me of the hopelessness of the evening.  Maintaining

hope, I kept my eyes focused on the road, eyeing every headlight with childlike

eagerness, knowing the next car would be the one.  Fast forward to seventeen, a 

little older, a little more jaded, but still waiting.  Still picking, still passing the time 

in the only way I knew how.  

Why is it that the people you are waiting for never show up, but the one you don't want to see is always there? That was the agonizing question for so many years.  Couldn't I just pick better people?  Couldn't I just take control over the situation?  Twenty-four, and a self proclaimed control freak, I still battle this waiting  phenomenon. Except now, I never give anyone a chance to blow me off, I'll cancel

on them before they have the chance to not show up.  I won't ask just on the off chance that they won't do. It's the human condition, after all.  Well holy crap.  It's not the God condition.  Something tells me HE's not going to mess this up, he's not going to leave me waiting.  So maybe I should stop expecting it.