He'll stay with me too, I suppose, the old man thought and he waited for it to be light. It was cold now in the time before daylight and he pushed against the wood to be warm. I can do it as long as he can, he thought. And in the first light the line extended out and down into the water. The boat moved steadily and when the first edge of the sun rose it was on the old man's right shoulder.
"He's headed north," the old man said. The current will have set us far to the eastward, he thought. I wish he would turn with the current. That would show that he was tiring.
When the sun had risen further the old man realized that the fish was not tiring. There was only one favorable sign. The slant of the line showed he was swimming at a lesser depth. That did not necessarily mean that he would jump. But he might.
"God let him jump," the old man said. "I have enough line to handle him."
We all wait for things to happen. Santiago waits for the fish to jump. On overcast days, I wait for rain. In December, I wait for Christmas. For a while now, I wait for everyone to go to bed so that I can watch a sad movie or read a sad book. Today, I waited for tomorrow, which would have been my sister's birthday. She would have been 61 this year.
Every year, when that day approaches, I sort of hit a emotional speed bump that forces me to slow down. Not in a take-time-to-smell-the-roses kind of way. More like a count-all-your-losses-and-get-overwhelmed kind of way.
I guess what I'm saying is that there's Christmas waiting, and then there's thunderstorm waiting.
Today, the sky turned dark about mid-afternoon, and since that time, I've been waiting for God to unleash some rain. It hasn't happened yet, and it's well past 11 p.m. I'm about ready to give up on cloudy with a chance of meatballs.
You see, waiting for something to happen doesn't always mean that it will happen. In my experience, as a matter of fact, when I'm expecting something to happen, it rarely does. About seven years ago, when my sister was about to turn 54, I was waiting for a miracle to happen--for the lymphoma in her brain to somehow vanish. I prayed for it. It never happened.
Perhaps, my sister's birthday, and the upcoming anniversary of her death in August, are contributing to my current struggles. Even after seven years, there are some days where I just . . . want to talk to her. Tell her that I'm sorry that she didn't have more time on this planet.
You see, near the end of the time that she was in the hospital in Ann Arbor, I advocated for hospice care. Even though I know to this day that it was the right thing to do, I still feel guilty that she didn't get to see my kids grow up. That she never got to enjoy the retirement that she saved for her whole life. That she didn't get more Christmases. She loved Christmas.
I'm waiting for midnight, and I miss singing "Happy Birthday" to my sister. Eating strawberry shortcake with her.
Saint Marty's blessing of the day: flowers blooming outside of church tonight.
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