Just the room and the late-afternoon sun and the waiting for my sister. Just the room and the sun, pumpkin-colored carpet and remainder of LPs. The needle pitching back and forth, endless ways to poke our fingers through the 45s. Always, on the floor. Our feet, naked, waving back and forth in the light.

I see him today—that cell phone, cocked head, big plastic cup with all the coffee sucked out, just stacks of ice left and a bag strap cutting across his chest. He’s a half-conversation, half-walk. All inside the sun.

We would drive all afternoon just looking and looking for a way outside the car. Couldn’t stand to walk those roads knowing that we would have to wait. But we did, always. We waited. She had Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and everything thereafter. She came home latest and loudest, slammed doors all the way upstairs. Or she stayed there with us, waiting through the pause between each song.

What have we done with the waiting? Where is it?