I let myself sink into this waiting, this expectation. In the hush that seems full of the sounds of the past I find it difficult to take a breath; I feel as though I should keep the silence, wait, anticipate.
Instead I let out my breath and notice the motes of dust that dance in the shaft of light before my eyes. They are not waiting, not frozen in time. They mill aimlessly, shifting with currents of air. The light catches them, turning ordinary dust that I would remove from my dwelling and person into tiny rainbows, shimmering.
In the shifting I can nearly see pictures cast against the shadows behind it. I move slightly in my seat, leaning forward, trying to see more clearly as I squint. The creak of the old wood jars me, seems to break the pregnant silence. I look around for someone to apologize to, but there is no one. Only me.
The pictures in the light are gone, but I am sure if I stare long enough, hard enough they will return. I will see the past, or the present. Perhaps even the future. Perhaps I will see the divinity that I feel hanging in the air, draped over this place. Not a shroud, for I do not sense death and decay here. No, there is peace. And patience. Above all, there is waiting.