Waiting Room Again

Eight years ago, a repair shop in Portland.
You held a paperback, last page torn out.
You asked if I knew how it ended.
I didn't, so we made one together.
Three hours, our cars, the start of us.

We guessed an ending, then life wrote better.
I heard a door open in me, quietly.

Emma, I'd sit in that waiting room again.
All over again, if it meant finding you.
Emma, your hand turned hours into home.
I'd wait three hours, to begin with you.

Our first apartment, that tiny, turn-taking kitchen.
We took turns just to open the fridge.
You hum making coffee, you don't even notice.
When my dad lost his hearing, you learned sign language.
On your lunch breaks, for Sundays with him.
Last year, you held my hand every single night.
While my mom was in the hospital.

Emma, I'd sit in that waiting room again.
All over again, if it meant finding you.
Emma, your hand turned hours into home.
I'd wait three hours, to begin with you.

Emma, those nights shrank my voice to a whisper.
You steadied it, just by lacing our hands.
On Sundays, you spoke with your hands for him.
That's when I knew what keeping means.

Emma, I'd sit in that waiting room again.
All over again, if it meant finding you.
Emma, your hand turned hours into home.
I'd wait three hours, to begin with you.