babyhead

It is a Wednesday. I have been here for a little over a year now. I know that this is a fact, because when I started work here, there were pictures painted in children's temper, on the windows there are Halloween pictures, scenes from all hallows eve.

This was a marker.

It is Wednesday, and today is the day when the pictures come down off the windows. It is Wednesday, and Ozzy works this afternoon. Today we will wash the windows with buckets of hot water, green liquid soap, and terry cloth towels.

I am not thinking about much.

I am not thinking about a month from now. I really am not thinking about much more than how warm it is for the second week of November. All I know is that he has the pumpkin patch, and I, I have the graveyard scene.

I look over the entire view, and decide I like that moon. I decide that the moon is my favorite. The moon will be the last to go. As I wash away the hoot owl, eyes wide, I think I can see into a Thursday morning. I perceive the light as different, I am sure I can see a month into the future.

There is a young woman seated by my window, and she is looking at a sugar pourer. In her right hand she grabs the glass container and lifts it above her head. Her hands shake, and there is anger on her lips as she pulls her arm back. In a violent way she moves her head towards friends, and pulls back for a throw.

I watch, and pretend to myself that I don't understand her anger, at all.

I look at Ozzy and he is being slow at his work. I call to him and pretend that he is the Karate Kid, I mimic cyclical washing movements, and go back to my work.

I wash away the dancing skeletons from their graveyard, and look through the clearing in the window into that Thursday morning. A bald man moves a cigarette from lips to fingers and then back again. He stands, he moves like a tiger, pacing three feet. I can see him trying to mouth one word that will say grief, and fear, and big hole, and stupid, and where, and why, and no. All at once, his left hand feels around in his pocket to see if he lost it there.

I can see Ozzy talking to a friend, talking to a friend that has a soft spot for him. I can't hear what it is that he is saying, but by the way she is looking at him, I think that his words should be delicately colored, and I know this, I know she can see them.

I want him to wash his window. I want him to see what I see.

I want him to see he is missing that Thursday morning.

The gangs of bats are next to go. With the bats gone I can see friends, brothers, and lovers on a Thursday morning. Pain covers their faces like light blankets. Each and all look at each other as if to accuse, and then move to hold one another.

I wash around the moon with care, and the sky is falling. Little gray bubbles drop on my boots. I can see clearly into a Thursday morning inside December. I can see the phone ringing. I can see people talking slowly into it. I watch people cross their arms and shake their heads and look away as something spills down their faces.

I save the moon for last. I wash away the moon, changing the water held in the cloth. I wash away the moon in small semicircles.

And I'm not thinking about much more that how warm it is for November.

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