Don't Blink!

Dirty Sweeper

A woman with dirty clothes was wiping the floor in front of me. A plastic was wrapped on her right hand and she was holding another plastic to sweep the dust off the pavement.

I almost thought of her as a man at first because of her haircut. Her face and body were covered with soot. Sitting with her knees bent forward, beads of cyan rosary were embedded on her neck and a spectacle with only one glass—the other empty— rested on her nose.

I watched her as I waited for the bus at the terminal. It was early in the morning, or mornight as my son, Adam, used to say. When night meets morning. I couldn't wait to come home and see him again. Two days from now would be his graduation and I already promised to be there.

"3 hours," the conductor said, "until the next bus arrives." I heard other commuters groan, yawn, and throw a fit of complaints. As for me, it eased my boredom to watch the old woman swiping and swiping the gray concrete continuously.

I took a bite of the bread I bought at the store which was twice the price. Then I took a sip from the water bottle that was thrice the price. I saved the two halves for later.

Then it came to a point that I couldn't help but ask one of the commuters next to me.

I pointed at the old lady still tirelessly wiping dust, "What do you think is she doing?" I asked.

One man with a cane said, "She's praying and fasting." Another man said, "It's just some dirty sweeper who gets paid to clean that spot."

I don't know why but I'm particularly appalled that he called her "dirty sweeper" instead of dirt sweeper.

"Because they're dirty themselves," a man with a belt bag murmured. "She could've used a broom," a lady with a shawl next to him interjected.

" I always feel pity for those street sweepers," I said, "especially the old ones."

"Don't pity them," a short man with a big suitcase on my right said, "It's just what they want to do like horses pulling a carriage. You think they're being tortured from being lassoed, but it's what they want, it's what they're built for. And with that, no one spoke again. But something irked me. To me, she looked as if she was mourning, grieving for something and I knew grief isn't something you can ever be built for.

A moment later, I finally stood up and mustered the courage to disturb her. The pungent scent of someone who hasn't taken a bath for days — even weeks— seared my nostrils. I didn't pinch my nose as I offered my remaining food to her. Only to be rejected which reminded me she might be really fasting. So I switched my hand to the water bottle but she still didn't accept it. Perplexed, I went back to my seat and watched her until I fell asleep.

Two hours of waiting later and the sky was a pale lavender. I woke up from my brief nap but I saw the old woman was still cleaning the same spot. But as I rubbed my restless eyes, I saw the floor was only getting dirtier. There were stains now.

From a distance, I heard someone yelling, "Thief! Thief!" But people didn't stir from it much less turn their heads to where it's coming from. Nonetheless, I saw others clutch their bags close to them. And the rest, maybe even if someone yells, "Fire!" none of them would move. I reverted my glance to the floor, thinking, It's every man for themselves here, so why would they care for a dirty old woman?

Finally, the bus arrived. But since I won't be going back here for I don't know how long, I asked the conductor about the dirty sweeper before climbing aboard. I expected it to be as interesting as something I would take home to my kid as a souvenir. But what he said made my blood curdle and my heart break. I was right about her mourning. The stains on the floor must've come from her hands and the dust might not be dust at all. Ashes. What the conductor said was during the siege two years ago, the old woman's son was shot at that very same spot. And she's been cleaning that spot, piling dust, and maybe wishing her son would one day come back.