The Worker.
He runs a hand, tired from typing at the desk all day, through his unruly locks of hair. His mother would never approve of such disorder of appearance. She cared so much about him being immaculate and neat and ready to face the day, no matter what it would bring. The bus is crowded, peak hour throngs of students and fellow office workers packed like sardines into the bus. The bright white lights glow from the ceiling of the bus, illuminating the worn and oily faces of workers, perhaps eager to wash up and watch a comforting romantic movie later on. After all, it is a Friday night. Many of his friends, still fresh and full of vigour, are partying tonight. Right at this moment, he knows, because he is still on the ever active WhatsApp chat room of theirs, even though he remains silent on it. He closes his eyes gently, ever grateful for the darkness and calmness. Sweat trickles down his back, plastering the soft cotton of his shirt down. The bus moves like a snail in the traffic, halting every few seconds as if it needed a break.
He exhales, thinking, perhaps, of the pizza he will order later, fresh and piping hot, all for him. The house, he knows, will be silent as it has been since two years ago. He knows it has been two years and it has been hard on everyone, but lately they have started to forget. Started to forget that laugh and chiding voice of his mother. Perhaps they are just trying to push away the bitter thoughts to the back of their minds where they will not notice them. But he can’t forget. It’s fresh, fresh in his mind, those few months when it was back and forth to the hospital, trying to cope with the new job while worrying at the same time about his mother, the sudden wasting figure. He turns his gaze to the large windows. The sun has set, hues of mixed pinks and purples lingering on the horizon. It’s dark enough to see the reflections of his fellow passengers in the window. He can’t tell the expression of most of them. Hardened faces, perhaps one would call them expressionless or without any soul. The students, what he once was, a long time ago, when all there was to worry about were projects and grades and simple trivial matters such as what colour file English Literature homework belonged in. Mother took care of everything else then. He remembered her voice, still crystal clear in his memory.
Do not worry about tomorrow, tomorrow will worry about itself. Relax and embrace what you have now, it may be gone with the wind soon.
She was right. He sighs, pulling himself up straighter.
It’s for mama and all the things she gave me. Stand straight, stand tall. I bet she’s looking down from heaven. I bet she’s proud she has a son like that.
