The day of a pair of shoes

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She got up quickly, like every day. The sunrise gave her adrenaline rush, because if she slept a little, if she took the dream for the 5 more minutes she would lose the bus. She was planted at the stop before the sun, fresh as a flower sprinkled with salt, sea salt, salt of hurry, salt of heat. The bus arrived about the same time, at 5:30am, at 5:55am, she was already looking for the key to open the door of the gentlemen's house. She started preparing an army breakfast. The family was big, in many ways, as big as the house they lived in. And the children greeted her with affection, perhaps because they grew up with her, or maybe because of the Caribbean flavor of her food. The most certain thing was that, because she left her black bámbula, in the rich smell of breakfast. When the children were asked about home-cooked food, they described a flavor full of history, seasoning, curry sautéed and sea loaves. The mother didn't cook, she could pay to a woman who spent the day on her feet cooking, just to begin with.

Then she had to go on with the house, three floors with rooms decorated for luxury, for the luxury of luxury. She cleaned in a hurry, anxiety disturbed her time, made her stumble, and sometimes left some things uncleaned. By noon the house was impeccable, well, fair enough. The lady paid her and rarely left a tip that did not exceed the five dollars. With all the dust, she had to get up and run away, by 1pm, she had to be in another house.

There she began with the kitchen, because in this country you enter through the kitchen, you park in the kitchen until everyone is supplied. From there to cleaning, to stumbling over the jumps of time, to flooding the lungs with dust, which are more often fatigued. Hurry, all in a hurry. She still has two houses left.

She runs down the avenue, resting only at green traffic lights. She arrives after 4pm. She prepares dinner, because the owner, a lady sick enough to not be able to walk, was attended by the nurse in what the vegetables and cod boiled. The food is ready, she passes a broom and then an almost dry mop, she is exhausted. She is still in a hurry; she has less time to reach the bus. She goes along the sidewalk, sees the stop and sees the bus that is about to leave. The driver starts, she is in the blind spot of the mirror, they don't see her. She runs, but she doesn't advance, because she doesn't run, she jogs. She moves dragging the weight of the day, her feet made of lead, forged with tiredness and work, with veins that beat about to explode. Someone sees her, yells at the driver and she gets on. She sits, her body rests on the work of someone else, the driver, who wants to get home, is tired, and on the road, leaves her one street down. She is still in a hurry to get there; she still lacks a house. She arrives, opens the door, is at home. She leaves the wrinkled dollars on the entrance table. She sits in a hurry on the sofa, she wants it too much, she needs it badly. She takes off her shoes. Ahhhh! Exhale. Her house, she will clean it some other day.

F. JaBieR