Morning from the Bus (original writing)
Morning from the Bus
Towel clutched to my chest, I dart across the field under morning’s dim. I must look like some feral creature evading the light of day as I approach the centre’s entrance and quickly shuffle in. Rounding the corner and into the women’s change room I stop in front of the row of sinks to examine my face. Looking into the mirror and there I am. Tired and pale; disappointed to see the same face as I had during yesterday’s bathroom inspection. Staring at myself a bit longer as if in a daze and I become hypnotized by the slow undulation of my pupils going in and out of focus. Like a mirage on the horizon; am I or am I not. With a sigh I head to a shower stall, disrobing quickly to avoid prolonged exposure to the draft. Luckily I always have the complete selection of showers to myself at this hour, allowing me to freely use the disabled stall for as long as I please. The disabled stall was quadruple the size of all the others and the water wasn't set on a timer, meaning I didn't have to push the "on" button every thirty seconds to resume my washing. At one point there used to be a plastic seat that attached to the wall directly under the shower head but that had either been ripped out by some angry teen transient or, after many years of use, had finally met its end under the bottom of some poor unassuming wheelchair-bound shower-goer. The community centre with its minimal funds had never bothered to replace the seat and now a blue lawn chair made out of mesh sat in its place, its back left leg chained to the shower handle. I turn on the water, sit in that blue lawn chair and close my eyes. Water becomes me; the heat is almost scorching, so welcomed after a night in the icy blue bus. The dampness that would collect inside was impossible to remove during winter, so B and I would sleep huddled together under the sodden weight of our shared quilt. Focusing on the beating pressure of the shower I lift my chin up, eyes still closed, laying my hands flat on the chair’s armrests; having a moment of God-like certitude. Poseidon in his throne, ushering calm throughout all the sea. This is as close to zen as I would get during the rest of my day. After this shower, after I dried my body with my snow-stained top and dressed back into my stale clothing, re-lacing my soggy shoes that would take me east, I would then scour the downtown streets for a dry alcove. One for me and my violin, playing on another cold December afternoon for the junkies and businessmen under the roar of taxis and congested city transit.
Zameena Zen
Very effective, descriptive writing, I can see it happening while I read, another tough day through the eyes of a true artist....
Thank you so much for reading, means a lot coming from you
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