My hand is wrapped around a pocket full of change as I push the button for the third floor.
I toss suitcases onto a luggage cart and weave back down the hall… bumping into hotel walls.
The door opens on floor two. A women from housekeeping steps in.
She glances down at my luggage and the Caterpillar trucks my son received as a Christmas gift.
“My husband worked for them for three months,” she said.
“He collected the little yellow dump trucks and put them on our window sill at home.”
A slight smile showed comfort in the short lived security.
A slight smile showed comfort in the short lived security.
She said after he started his job he got laid off because of the recession. Her face showed little disappointment. It seemed more familiar with acceptance.
Her husband is diabetic and is in the process of trying to collect disability.
Her hands, white and clean, ruffled dirty bed sheets as fluorescent light colored her skin with a green sickness. I stopped looking into her eyes.
As the elevator door opened, she wishes me a Happy New Year and a safe trip home. She moves away slowly, pushing her basket of laundry down a hall she has walked for eight years.
As the door closes I am left alone looking into a mirror framed by
shiny metal and sick lighting; my face and clothing absent of color.
I linger…looking. A revealing portrait is seen as I move away.
Sunday morning
January 4, 2010
©2010 Peter Tobia
©2010 Peter Tobia
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