from a morning at work
The Hallway Light
Every morning I walk the same hallway. The light arrives before I do — it waits on the floor near room 14, where Margaret likes to sit with her tea before the day fully wakes up.
I used to think my job was about keeping spaces clean. Floors, windows, air. And it is. But somewhere along the way I understood it differently: I'm keeping a place gentle for people who are living the quietest chapters of their lives.
Margaret doesn't say much anymore. But when the hallway light reaches her chair, she closes her eyes and tilts her face toward it, the way you would toward the sun on the first warm day of spring. She notices. Every single morning, she notices.
Yesterday left me feeling sad, upset, and a little angry — some days here are heavy in ways I can't explain. But this morning I remembered something simple: I get to wake up and go somewhere I enjoy. I get to walk a hallway where the light arrives first, and where someone is always waiting to greet it.
That's not a small thing. I'm starting to think nothing is.