Hopscotch

I used to hopscotch on squares, like the ones in front of me now, except that these squares are so large and perfect–symmetrical--polished to a brilliant sheen, and laid to form an alternating pattern of beige, mocha, blue, and a rusty hue that emanates throughout the wallpaper. The designer-like, yet non-descript walls that surround me are identical in all the hallways. The glass partitions half–way up the wall serve as my mirrors, framed in a sort of light natural oak. I turn back and forth and check my hair as I walk by, putting my four fingers from both hands on the sides of my hair to “pouf” it up a little. I forgot my brush today. Yesterday I forgot to cash a check. I seem to be forgetting a lot of things lately. My hair falls down on my shoulders, and now I am a little more satisfied that I do not have that “flathead” look anymore.

The chairs, found in the hallways, have coordinating cushions that blend with blues and beige, but do not match the wallpaper. The wallpaper has wood frames made into large squares halfway up the wall that coordinate with the framing of the glass partitions. The whole arena seems important to me now, and gives me a sense that a decorator has been here, and that I am supposed to relax and feel “at home” because I am in the midst of furniture and “décor”, not just chairs, and windows, and floors. In this hallway, I only smell floor wax, not the other smells of some parts of this building.

So, when I walk once again on those brilliantly shiny squares down the hall, and glance at myself in those framed wooden windows surrounded by wallpapered walls, I wonder if everyone else thinks I look as bad as I think I do. The concealer patted under the dark rings under my eyes, this morning, needs to be reapplied. I am tired of walking these halls, all these days and nights; they are becoming too familiar. So, perhaps I might rest for a bit, in a patterned cushiony chair, outside that room and wait.

Wait, while the doctor examines my dying mother--just once more. Maybe I will be just a little bit more at ease while I sit in this chair and dry my eyes, and remember how the woman in that room—the one so crippled and small now, with all the tubes and pain medication—was the one who smiled and laughed and taught me how to draw those uneven squares on the sidewalk, with the thick, pink and blue chalk from the five and ten cents store. The one who taught me how to throw those little pieces of slate--so many years ago—and hop from one square to another and pick the slate up, and hop back home to win. We played for so many summers. So long ago. I was little then. I wish I could be little again. Maybe it’s a little easier to face the present by remembering the past-- when you are sitting on a comfortable chair.