PatCH

Three Years Young

I sit here at my desk this afternoon, nursing a cup of coffee and watching groggily the steam rise through the chilly office air, the consequences of our company party last night evident in the sleepy faces of my colleagues around me. Outside, the city is blanketed in gray, a hundred thousand tiny raindrops swirling about in the midtown fog. I take a quiet sip and think to myself, Three years today. Wow, three years.

Happy birthday, journal.

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Approval

It's taken more than five years, five years of being unsure, five years of tentativeness, five years of waiting and waiting for the word. Through application hiccups and lost paperwork and worrisome inquiries and headaches. Lots of anxiety on many fronts. The lawyers sent yet another inquiry in October. I should have heard months ago.

On Monday I came home earlier than usual, tired and cranky from stressful days at the office, having to deal with a thousand things there, a thousand things too many for my weary mind. Too much tension this time of year, I thought. I rifled through the mail and picked out a thin, nondescript envelope, holding it to my chest as I headed for the elevator. Upstairs, I put the catalogs and bills aside and sat down quietly in the semi-darkened apartment. My heart was racing as I placed my finger gently under the sealed flap at the back, coaxing it open with a gentle rip-ip-ip-ppp. As I read the single-page letter, I let out the deep breath I hadn't until then realised I was holding, and grinned broadly. My application for permanent residence had been approved.

Approved!

After living fourteen years in America, after five years of waiting and waiting for an answer, I now have word that I can stay. My green card has finally, finally, finally been approved. They said yes!

I'm so happy I could cry.

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