Three
The Lost Art of Waiting
My grandfather owned a single watch, and he was never late. We own a dozen clocks — on our wrists, our walls, our screens — and we are always running. Somewhere between his time and ours, waiting stopped being a part of life and became a failure of it.
He would sit on the veranda after Maghrib and do, as far as I could tell, nothing at all. No book, no radio, no company. Once I asked him what he was waiting for. “Nothing,” he said. “I already arrived.”
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