I am waiting for a package, it's been dispatched I am told repeatedly on the phone, every morning, or whenever I get a chance in the day, I call them to ask about it. I am always told, it's been dispatched.
So I wait, my eyes peeled on the road I try to spot a likely delivery man, my street is mostly empty, it would not be difficult to spot the person.
Many hours, and hours to days, days to week have since passed, I keep being told it's been dispatched and I keep looking out for it to come, but it hasn't come through yet.
In my desparation, I have come down to the street now, wanting to flag down someone else's delivery and ask a question or two about mine.
So I stand, as the rain falls merciless and cold from the grey sky. The damp cold air sends shivers into my already cold heart, to the depths where some say the soul resides. My soul lives, mostly forgotten, under the clothes, beneath the parched and brow beaten skin, and the many layers of lies and indifference I have piled on with every little scratch that life sent my way. I don't disturb it much, lest it asks a question that shakes through the house of cards I have been living in.
Meanwhile, my package seems to have been lost in transit, but I still think it should come through, the phone people tell me, they will give me a refund, but I don't want a refund, so I tell them I will wait a few more days.
So I wait, beside a curb, under a small unremarkable tree, the kind no one cares about. The rain seeps through the branches on to my head, but I am determined to wait out a little more. Evenings like today, the rain talks to me and I stare back at it silently. We do this often. I generally have nothing to talk about. I spoke everything I had to in my younger years, now when I search for a word within, all I find is an empty void bereft of things to talk about. Only, my mind still talks to me, but mostly things I don't want to hear about. So this is how it goes, rain talks to me, while I blink and listen to the talk going on in my head. It's mostly a good routine, until either the rain or the brain starts talking of some uncomfortable things. There is still no sight of my delivery person.
Waiting patiently, I peel of my clothes, but I have to stop there, as I can't peel off my skin, though I am sure that this rain will wash away some of the layers of indifference piled beneath my skin and ease out my soul, though I am no longer sure if it lurks somewhere beneath it.
It's clear, my package is lost in transit, but I can't seem to stop waiting for it, I have been sent a refund and been told sorry, they said maybe the package will still turn up, but that I should consider it lost. I don't know what to do with the refund though. No one talks to me about the package on the phone now, they say they can't talk about it since it's lost. So now I talk about it to myself aloud.
Today, is a slightly sunny day, so I come out again and stand by the road, not really waiting, but somehow still waiting. I wonder if my package got delivered to someone else instead, or if it is truly lost, I wonder if I should call them again to check, but they don't pick my phone anymore. Maybe I should just forget about it all, but then what else will I do with my empty hours, if I stop waiting. Maybe the package is already delivered, maybe it was empty, maybe I already recieved it, maybe I have it lying unboxed beneath my bed. Or maybe it got lost. So many maybe's, my memory is beginning to fade.
Many days, I still wait by the curb, every now and then, glancing on a passing person with mild eagerness, but then I shrug and just smile to myself. Their phone no longer rings, it seems the number has changed, I still don't know what to do with that refund though. Meanwhile, my memory fades, did I recieve the package already?
