Vivid

Vivid wasn’t the color of her dress –  a lavender smock worn when cleaning bathrooms every day…

Vivid wasn’t the way her eyes smiled when she thought of him, from so many years ago she wasn’t sure he ever even existed…

Vivid wasn’t the sound of the bells from Our Lady of Guadalupe ringing every morning at 7 am, ringing above the agitation rush-hour starting, beckoning all those seeking penance….

Vivid was the smell of the fall leaves composting on that early March morning, as she stepped outside, as she stood waiting for the bus running late…

Vivid was the smell that choked her breath. The smell that would stay with her all morning, masking the lemon-scented ammonia she would use to scrub 22 toilets and all the hand-painted floor tiles that surrounded each one…

Vivid was the feeling of summer closing in…

 

© 2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

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