Their tanned naked feet contrasted the vibrant marigold petals that every step concluded on. I watched these men in their draped deep orange robes, from my seat in a van speeding by. The image was fast-forwarded past my eyes only giving me a glimpse of the colors. The procession was long and many people kneeled at the edge of the marigold path. The details in the faces of these men, dedicated to a life of restraint, blurred. I found myself wanting to know them, wanting to look into their peaceful eyes and listen to their relaxed cadence of speech. Wanting to know how they were raised and what their favorite book was.
I hold them on a pedestal, but I want to climb it and see the view.
A cockroach scurried past my feet on the dull, monotone cement in, what it thought was, the safety of night. I looked up when I smelled the sweet, clean smell of fresh clothes. As I peered into what has become my favorite store front on the street, I saw the woman surrounded by her work. There were washed clothes hanging above her and below her, leaving a path just wide enough for her to pass through the school uniforms, suits, vibrant dresses for dancing, flowing skirts, traditional garb in brilliant colors too precious to machine wash and many other pieces of people’s lives. She was unaware of my gaze and continued ironing silently with the only noise being the peaceful rhythm of the crickets outside.
I try to think of what would make her laugh
The yellow leaf made a crinkle noise as I stepped down with my knee high brown boot. It was fall and leaves littered the path that lead to my Social Construction of Madness class. I followed other students in fleeces and scarves, and back packs, gabbing to each other about the break that was approaching, to the academic buildings, stepping on the fallen leaves of yellow and orange. The familiarity of these students lives allows me to continue without much thought.
The procession of the men in orange ends and I am left planning my route up the majestic cliff.