Some days I put the people in their places at the table,

bend their legs at the knees,

if they come with that feature,

and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.

All afternoon they face one another,

the man in the brown suit,

the woman in the blue dress,

perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.

But other days, I am the one

who is lifted up by the ribs,

then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse

to sit with the others at the long table.

I feel my faith wavering as I wonder if we will ever really be together.

I have been battling depression as it seems our future is a bleak possibility.

I try to stop the sobs wanting to escape when I think of the events we miss out on each other.

I wipe quickly the tears that escape from the pain in my heart that squeezes out the joy in me.

I pray for endurance as I wait on the day I will see him again.

I yearn for a sign that one day he and I will never be this far apart.

I beg the Almighty to make this “one day” very very very soon.

I count the blessings: having him, seeing him, talking to him, being loved by him.

I wait some more. Even though it seems so long.

So long.

So long.

The waiting seems so long.