Wake Unto Me
The clock on the wall continues its relentless march, its rhythmic ticking marking the passage of seconds. In the corner, young children play with worn-out toys that have endured years of rough handling. It is a bit unsettling to wonder if these playthings have ever been sanitized since they were first unpacked from their boxes. The rest of the waiting room is small and slightly dingy, wrapped in old wallpaper featuring muted, abstract shapes. Chairs line the perimeter of the room, with a small island of seating clustered in the center. A few remarkably artificial trees are scattered about, a strained attempt to make the sterile space feel more welcoming. Directly across from me, a single, narrow window looks out into the world, while a reception cutout in the wall houses a nurse typing quietly on her keyboard. To the right of her desk stands a heavy, unmarked door.
Trying to steady my nerves, I breathe in and out slowly. The mother in the chair beside me glances back and forth between her copy of Oprah magazine and her toddler. She flinches slightly when an older man walks toward the play area, her shoulders tense with a protective instinct. But as the man reaches for a little girl who squeals and calls him "Grandpa," the mother exhales a long breath of relief and turns the page of her magazine.
Suddenly, the latch on the door to the inner offices clicks open. My grip on the armrests tightens, and my breath catches in my throat. A stern-faced nurse dressed in dark scrubs steps out and calls a name that is not mine. An elderly woman across the room quietly gathers her purse over her shoulder and walks toward the entrance. I peer past her, trying to catch a glimpse of what lies inside, but all I can see is a pristine, whitewashed corridor flooded with an overbearing, brilliant white light. The door clicks firmly shut behind them, and my grip on the chair slowly relaxes.
I look back at the clock. It feels as though I have been suspended in this room for hours. Tick, tick, tick. The steady rotation of the second hand sounds like a countdown, a reminder of how quickly time slips away. It is a universal rhythm, isn't it? We are all moving toward the same final destination. People come to places like this when life hangs in the balance, seeking answers or perhaps preparing to let go. I wonder briefly why I remain here. I have the power to stand up and walk right out the front doors. No one has tethered me to this chair. And yet, I stay.
To steady my rising anxiety, I close my eyes and focus entirely on my breathing, letting myself drift into a quiet, meditative state. My mind immediately wanders to my favorite memory, to Tom. I can still feel the warmth of that winter when he surprised me with a trip to California. I loved him so deeply for that. It was our escape from the bitter, relentless Wisconsin winters, no more shoveling, just endless sun. On our way to the airport, I remember asking him, "Do you think people who live in the sun get just as tired of the heat as we do of the snow? Or is every single day like paradise to them?" Tom had simply laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Should we find out?" he had asked.
A sudden burst of laughter from the corner brings me back to the present. Looking at the toys scattered on the carpet, I find myself thinking of my own childhood. I grew up in a comfortable, quiet home with a deeply loving mother and father. I remember how my mother used to tuck me in at night, her voice soft and soothing as she sang sweet, gentle melodies to help me sleep. For years, I struggled to remember the exact words, though I still find myself humming the tune when I am stressed or lonely. My father was a hardworking man, and because of his long hours, our time together was precious. Most mornings, I only saw him during breakfast as I sat eating my eggs and toast. He would walk by, kiss the top of my head, and then kiss my mother with a quiet, passionate tenderness before leaving for work. I always admired their relationship, the deep, unspoken love and mutual respect they held for each other through all the passing years.
The heavy door opens once more. I look away this time, focusing instead on humming that familiar, comforting melody from my youth. The nurse's voice cuts through the hum, calling out a child's name. Beside me, the mother stands up to gather her son. Before she walks away, she looks down at me with a warm smile. "My boy loves that song, too," she says gently. "Beautiful Dreamer." It always calms him down."
A wave of realization washes over me. Of course, that was the song. I can't believe the title had slipped my mind for so long. Beautiful Dreamer. I watch as the mother takes her little boy by the hand, and together they are ushered through the doorway into the bright light beyond.
As the door clicks shut, the nurse's voice seems to echo softly in my mind, repeating the child's name. There is an unsettling, detached quality to her demeanor, not that she is unkind, but she possesses a clinical coldness that I can't quite articulate. I wonder about the nature of her role. She acts as a silent guide, delivering one patient after another to whatever lies ahead. I find myself questioning why we need an escort at all. Why can't we simply walk through when our name is called?
I turn my gaze forward and notice a teenage boy sitting directly across from me. He wears a baggy sweatshirt and torn jeans, completely lost in whatever music is playing through his headphones. Looking at him, I am instantly reminded of my own high school years. Those days can feel so monumental, filled with a raw, electric potential if we only realize it at the time. Of course, if an older man had tried to tell me that back then, I would have dismissed him with a shrug and walked away. Still, a sudden urge rises within me to cross the room, shake him gently by the shoulder, and say, "Wake up! Go out and discover who you are. Don't let the world squeeze you into its mold. Live your life fully, on your own terms, and never let anyone tell you what you can't achieve." But knowing he would only view me as a strange, eccentric old man, I stay in my seat.
When I was his age, with the whole world stretching out before me, I was incredibly lonely. I didn't have many close friends until I met Tom near the very end of high school. Growing up in a home filled with my parents' deep, protective warmth, I had been ill-prepared for the sheer, biting isolation of those teenage years. They loved me unconditionally, but they couldn't shield me from the quiet cruelty of the school hallways or the gym class lineups where I was always picked last. I was the quiet kid who sat alone at the back of the cafeteria, finding it far easier to talk to my teachers than to my peers. I felt entirely out of place, different from everyone else in ways I couldn't yet define. It always seemed so effortless for others to laugh, swap jokes, and build instant connections, while I remained on the outside looking in.
Meeting Tom near the end of high school was like the sudden arrival of spring. He was the first person my own age who truly saw me, breaking through that cold armor of isolation and inviting me out into the sun.
The sharp sound of the heavy door opening breaks my train of thought. When the nurse calls the next name, the sudden sound makes me startle in my seat. It feels for a brief second as if everyone in the quiet room is watching me. The teenage boy pulls out his headphones and stands up. As he walks past, he catches my eye and offers a peculiar, knowing look, a soft, half-smile that feels surprisingly gentle. I watch him march through the doorway with an admirable, youthful confidence, entirely unafraid of whatever lies ahead. I wonder if he knows exactly what to expect, or if I am the only one sitting here in the dark, uncertain of what waits on the other side.
In the ensuing silence, the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock fills the space once more, accompanied by a faint, rapid tapping. I look across the room and spot a bald man in a tailored sports coat and tie, his fingers flying across the screen of his phone. He is completely absorbed in his work, utterly detached from his surroundings.
Seeing him makes me feel a sudden surge of quiet pride in my own life choices. I never allowed my career to consume me. I always feared waking up one day to realize I had traded forty years of my life to a sterile desk job I despised, shelving the things that actually brought me joy. I remember the struggles of my early career, trying to make a living as a writer.
My father, a pragmatic man of schedules and physical labor, had initially worried about my choice of such an unstable path. But Tom had stepped in to carry that torch of support. Tom possessed my father's steady, quiet work ethic, working a standard job to keep us afloat while I chased my stories, yet he also had my mother's nurturing, melodic heart.
Tom was always my greatest champion. He encouraged me to keep going even when the rejection letters piled up, saving me from a suffocating office routine. I remembered those long, quiet nights at the kitchen table, typing until my fingers were stiff. Tom would slip into the room on his way to work in the early morning, kiss the top of my head, and leave a fresh cup of steaming coffee next to my manuscript. It was a silent, recurring blessing, a proof that I had built the very same quiet sanctuary of love and respect I had admired in my parents' home.
I smile softly at the memory. Thank God I chose to follow my dream. I may not have been a famous household name, but that was never the goal. I spent my days doing what I loved, writing articles, stories, and books that found their way into local newspapers, shops, and hands that appreciated them. That made all the difference.
The heavy door creaks open once more. This time, I do not flinch. A deep sense of calm has settled over me, and my heart rate remains perfectly steady. The businessman stands up, slips his phone into his belt holster, and walks toward the entrance without hesitation.
I look to my left and catch my reflection in the silver-framed mirror hanging on the wall. The eyes looking back at me are old, framed by a delicate web of wrinkles. When did this transition happen? It feels like only yesterday I was looking into the bathroom mirror as a young boy, my face smooth and unwritten, completely unaware of the journey ahead.
Now, the waiting room is entirely still. I am the only one who remains.
The heavy door clicks open a final time, casting a warm, brilliant glow across the worn carpet. The nurse steps out, her eyes meeting mine. "Mr. Callaway," she says, her voice remarkably gentle. "We're ready for you now."
I slowly rise from my chair. As I stand, the lingering stiffness in my limbs seems to fade, replaced by a strange, weightless tranquility. When I look at the nurse, she no longer appears cold or distant. She looks beautiful, her eyes filled with an infinite grace.
She reaches out and takes my hand. I feel the quiet melody of "Beautiful Dreamer" hum in my heart, and a peaceful certainty settles over me that Tom is waiting just beyond the threshold. Together, we step into the blinding, beautiful light.
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