la escalera

It’s only a nun costume, I reminded myself as she squealed with delight and ran inside the house, palms so full of gooey caramels someone had to open the front door for her.

Of course: Halloween.

The vestments would make no difference, I told myself.

Habit would not overcome habits.

It was just a costume.

She was waiting. I thought of people everywhere waiting. Waiting for promises to be fulfilled, for vows to be kept, for the ice cream man to come down their street, for pay day, for papers to come through, for nightfall, for things to cool off. She wasn't waiting for any of these things.

Every Tuesday afternoon, I got the call.

Jesús, he would say, you need to be more thorough. Make sure you get to ALL the sliding doors and the windows. There are a lot of smudges on the glass even after you've cleaned them.

Si, señor, I would reply. Claro.

But there were other houses to do; I could't wait until nap time. Or for her to tire of the game. So, always, I climb the ladder. I wash and squeegee. I am precise and quick. And my work is perfect. It is so perfect that the sparrows are confused by the illusion of nothing.

And I don't look inside. I pretend that the surface is all there is.

I see nothing beyond it. Not even the wee nun waiting until I finish to press her sticky little palm against the glass I've just washed.