A hospice custodian polishes the floors all day. I wonder if he does it so the souls don’t stick to the floor or so the soles don’t scuff the hallway leading to sorrow-soaked moments and final goodbyes. The beautiful kind.
The whir of his machine is louder than prayer. Perhaps for privacy.
He doesn’t smile. Nor does he furrow his brow or frown.
Pensive. Peaceful. He’s a caretaker, readying reflections, buffing the bridge to the beyond.
I watch him from a tiny window in the marketing department office.
Realizing just how meaningful his duties are. Certainly, far more rewarding than mine.