Waiting.

The clock’s fifteen

past eight; the distant

car honks and civilian

commotion, shielded

by the thick glass pane

that was beside me.

Night time: the dried up

drool from the car ride lingered

around my lips.

Music: around me, catering

a soulful trance of belonging.

Dad dropped me off

so I was alone for a while.

The ladies at the front desk

asked if I wanted a magazine

to read.

I said sure. What better to

fulfill the meantime than a

magazine.

(It was a piano place,

yet this magazine was 

about food.)

Instantly, I got hungry;

Why the sizzling hot peppers

on the first page?

It was tattered and full

of twists and turns.

Motley, with one section

for food, then the next for real

estate.

I wonder who's read it 

before me?

Flipping through,

I found a page of pears,

pushed together like

an awkward family photo,

greener than, I don’t know,

apple sauce.

It was just another page.

It was my weekly piano

lesson; a periodical that I

hadn’t known then to cherish

but one that I do now.

Food.

This time, I was in the city,

Manhattan, by the Sephora

near Penn Station.

I followed my mom in,

smelled the usual pungent

florals, and swayed urgently

from side to side like I needed

the bathroom. 

I did.

So, annoyed and, well yeah,

just annoyed, she found a nearby

Starbucks; and in there,

there were people of all kinds

—all ages, all shirts, all hair;

busy with a homely feel

of comfort, not irk.

A fruit painting by the 

barista's eyes when I go

order.

I ignore it, and ask

for my go-to green tea

frappé.

But, it hung there with

a question.

Do you remember me, it

whispered.

Duped.

Now, four years later, I’m

in my last year of middle

school. Unbeknownst to me,

the pandemic would hit hard

in just two weeks: schools

across the nation would be 

put into remote schooling;

weeks of awkward adjustments,

emails of reassurance by administration

inundating both my and my parents’

inboxes; friends suddenly spending

more time with my friends than me;

But, for now, I’m in seventh

period art.

More than halfway done with

the day, art was where my creativity

tag teams with fatigue to create

what oftentimes seemed a

temporary masterpiece; now,

here, temporary in that

I didn’t like it, not my teacher.

Today’s task was fruit paintings.

Well, that was going to be

easy.

I’d seen it so many times 

before. What could be so difficult?

After all, it had already introduced

itself to me. I knew its contour,

its warped oil topping,

its regal frame,

its whipped feint strokes,

beige in the background as

its shadows.

What could be so difficult 

about a few weeks of remote

school, when everything

would return to normal  

in the blink of an eye,

not knowing that 

the most familiar things were

also the most difficult to explain?