15 - Sweeping

 

 

I push my broom.

It is what keeps me alive since someone must do it, and none of THEM will.

I do not think of what I sweep other than it as dust that has come here on the wind or I pretend it is the remains of a winters worth of expended coal.

Sometimes I do not think at all, or wonder why I don’t try to stop it all.

I know why.

Better to push the broom, than to be pushed by it.

I used to cry at night after days like this. Yet hunger or numbness made me stop.

I do not cry or laugh anymore.

I just push my broom.

When I am done, I sleep.

I cannot stop the dreams, yet I do all I can to forget them.

Sometimes, I used to count the strokes I made, but stopped that when a vague thought came to me that their number might equal the number of faces I have not seen recently.

In the barracks, no one looks at me as I get ready for sleep; as if I have become the angel of death no amount of blood smeared can make pass over.

Some hate me for doing the work THEY should do – believing I have traded my place in line for the privilege.

I try not to believe that others have turned to dust in my place.

I try not to believe that I, too, will turn to dust when my sweeping is done.

I just sweep.



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