Waiting, it’s an exam of time and money, a test they’ll never pass — specifically, how precious is a life? It’s always the same, this waiting, amid ghostly gowned, suspended patience — shrouded in the fusc and noise of incomplete or false report — the expectation day after day, after moon, and in every line, in every office hour, the prison of the calendar box in which the appointment’s set down, as if scribbled into stone: it passes monstrously slowly, sacrificing its people to patients, its patients to victims, monotony deferred to nullity, a void, this grave for entitlement, an afterlife of modest proportions, attended to by the biting of nails, by unwarranted hunger, and that perpetually unparticular thirst. Without even the promise of Purgatory — it’s the purgatory of purgatory, which would find you finally guilty only if innocent of shuffle, fidget, twitch. An extension to be granted to boredom, indecision, to seek leave only for a rest — though if they sleep, Him or any of them, they might miss their name when called, or if (no one knows, though, upon which pad that disclaimer might be scribed); that is, if names are still theirs to have and speak and hear amid such desperation — the aim of which, as implemented from above, from below, can only be to depersonalize, to victimize human not into animal but worse, turned to mere number, into order, into slave. All names to become, after this, the wait itself, named Wait — after this assimilation into oblivious system, this initiation into nothingness, misfiled. It’s the latest in destructive: how the one solace He’s expected to derive from this is that of His own suffering, and that of others, expectant, too; there’s enough to go around and dizzying around and yet beyond Him, nauseous, a sensation worse than suspicion’s comfort, or the consolation of His fear; Him by now mature enough to know that all the kvetch in the world won’t hasten fate, thanks Israel, which Hanna never understood, how our noodgy push is fated to nil, no avail.
The office’s patients are joined throughout the following days and weeks by older wards of the Garden — terminals, causes lost to corpse — tapping last toes, pulling final fine hairs, teething the lip then a tongue to suck the dust and, also, to postpone, putoff, keep waiting every urge — waiting for Doctor Tweiss or his twin, for both of them or their receptionist she thinks she’s a nurse if she’s not too busy, to belch them out upon the Belt Parkway, beached; as if prophets spit from the innards of a Leviathan sustained on watery time, sundered upon a brutal clock — an end to office hours, when. A doctor heals but time does, too, depending on how devoted that doctor is to the treatment. It follows that this is how one remunerates the brothers for their work; this very waste their payment, earned in the professional discharge of a gross neglect. Waiting for an hour is good for a consultation of ten minutes, wasting three days away will get you a fullbody checkup — in the perfection of this transaction there being no insurance information to give, no forms to fill out, or checks to cut; them paying the outstanding balance in their deaths; the wait being the end of them as individuals, as people; accounted animals, counted breaths. Or else, in another interpretation: as no soul ever dies, they’ll transcend themselves upon the reckoning, taking leave of their ordinal, regularly scheduled forms, to become the wait itself, a reincarnation to total waste. With all the days of their lives and their nights, too, sentenced to the time that must be waited out by their generations ensuing, until their own demise, then that of theirs and onward, which becoming is and would be perpetual, forever — humble contributions to a charity eternal.
Enough, enough to say — it springs. Dayeinu. An explosion, we will be swallowed by the earth. Our core comes apart, a bomb up from the Apple’s bowels — islands its shards, the city a broken vessel. Repair, whether mend or heal, you do what you can, your best.
A new life seeps up from the void within…disperses out, under the permafrost — in veins, a straining snarl. Our foundations are rocked; smoky tufts, dusky mold; buds shiver into silvery crowns; ices crack westerly, wrack the Island in a jarring purge: spring, the season of crying, kicking rebirth…spring, the season of sprung quickly, cold stillbirth — their mother is the same. Their father, he’s late — we’re waiting on him still.
