Waiting

A few months ago, November to be exact, I submitted a few poems to a literary magazine for publication. Within a week or two, I received a friendly letter from the magazine informing me that they received my submission and would disclose their decision within two to three months. While I am no mathematician, I understand that the outlined deadline is quickly approaching. As a result, I have been on pins and needles awaiting the official response. Every day, I tromp through the melting snow drifts to the mail center at my university. While the mail clerks do not know my name, they have memorized our exchange:

"Hi, I was wondering if I could pick up the mail for Brownstone 250," I say.
The old mail clerk with a white mustache and glasses hobbles over to the marked slot in the wall.
"No mail today" he says. He hobbles back to his desk and sorts letters and mail for other students.

Every day is the same and every day I get my hopes up. When I arrive at the mail center, my blood is bubbling and my body shakes with both nervousness and excitement. Today is the day,  I tell myself repeatedly, and repeatedly I am let down. If there is mail in the box, it is never for me, and when it is it is usually just a note from the college telling me that, yes, tuition will be raised another 1.9% for next term. These repeated let downs act as demons. They eat away at my brain and tell me that I am not worthy to be published, that the editor will never contact me, and that this whole not knowing process is a less confrontational form of rejection. I am trying to stay positive, I truly am, but it is hard to stay chipper when you haven't heard a single bit of news in three months.

Waiting is a difficult task. It is a dull gray void of nothingness. It is the tick-tock sound of second hands passing on a clock and lead limbs. Though it is undesirable by every definition of the word, it is what it is. I guess I just need to be patient and keep waiting.