In the Waiting Room

In Worcester,

Massachusetts,

I went with Aunt Consueloto keep her dentist's appointmentand sat and waited for herin the dentist's waiting room.

It was winter.  It got darkearly.

The waiting roomwas full of grown-up people,arctics and overcoats,lamps and magazines.

My aunt was insidewhat seemed like a long timeand while I waited and readthe National Geographic(I could read) and carefullystudied the photographs:the inside of a volcano,black, and full of ashes;then it was spilling overin rivulets of fire.

Osa and Martin Johnsondressed in riding breeches,laced boots, and pith helmets.

A dead man slung on a pole "Long Pig," the caption said.

Babies with pointed headswound round and round with string;black, naked women with neckswound round and round with wirelike the necks of light bulbs.

Their breasts were horrifying.

I read it right straight through.

I was too shy to stop.

And then I looked at the cover:the yellow margins, the date.

Suddenly, from inside,came an oh! of pain—Aunt Consuelo's voice—not very loud or long.

I wasn't at all surprised;even then I knew she wasa foolish, timid woman.

I might have been embarrassed,but wasn't.  What took mecompletely by surprisewas that it was me:my voice, in my mouth.

Without thinking at allI was my foolish aunt,

I—we—were falling, falling,our eyes glued to the coverof the National Geographic,

February, 1918.

I said to myself: three daysand you'll be seven years old.

I was saying it to stopthe sensation of falling offthe round, turning cold, blue-black space.

But I felt: you are an I,you are an Elizabeth,you are one of them.

Why should you be one, too?

I scarcely dared to lookto see what it was I was.

I gave a sidelong glance—I couldn't look any higher—at shadowy gray knees,trousers and skirts and bootsand different pairs of handslying under the lamps.

I knew that nothing strangerhad ever happened, that nothingstranger could ever happen.

Why should I be my aunt,or me, or anyone?

What similaritiesboots, hands, the family voiceI felt in my throat, or eventhe National Geographicand those awful hanging breastsheld us all togetheror made us all just one?

How I didn't know anyword for it how "unlikely". . .

How had I come to be here,like them, and overheara cry of pain that could havegot loud and worse but hadn't?

The waiting room was brightand too hot.  It was slidingbeneath a big black wave,another, and another.

Then I was back in it.

The War was on.  Outside,in Worcester,

Massachusetts,were night and slush and cold,and it was still the fifthof February, 1918.