The custodians

They pass by my cubicle with carts loaded with paper towels, garbage bags, cleaning supplies and pink rubber gloves.

Uncle…brother, can you come by with your feathery wand next and dust off these shattered memories that lie, embedded, in the orphanage floor?

Can you spare some of that solvent in your cart, too, so I can spend some time alone and wipe away all of the unnecessary apologies that have accumulated around the edges?

Auntie…sister, I walked in on you as you were putting toilet paper in the men’s stalls, and you gave me your widest smile as a token of your understanding.

“Sorry”, you said, “that we couldn’t keep you with us. It was never supposed to be this way. Excuse me, I’ll leave you be.”

The layers of paint and wallpaper in my mind bend and buckle to the floor, and I’ve only got a lifetime to clean up this mess.

They pass by my cubicle again. One is pushing a vacuum cleaner, the other is running the dust wand along wood and plastic.

I look at the screen and then I watch their backs as they walk away from me. Two more people who pity the workhorse I’ve become.