Every 11 pm, when I leave the law library, I pass through an adjacent building that is typically vacant by this time of night. Typically, there is nobody there, except for the elderly janitor. He’s about 50-ish and he’s Latino – from Mexico or Central America from the accent I heard from him when he was speaking with a co-worker one night. And every night as I pass through the lonely building, I see the classic yellow mop bucket with a mop in it. Or I hear the floor buffer. Or I hear a vacuum cleaner. Most of the time, I see him cleaning the glass doors. He cleans the glass on these doors, glass that is never smudged through out the day. He cleans an already clean surface. And as I pass through the glass doors, he pauses to let me by, and all I can do is give him a brief flash of a tepid smile. It kills me.

He reminds me of my mother. My mother who spent years in this country cleaning other people’s messes. Serving as a maid for people of a higher income bracket. Doing menial labor so she can provide for her children.

My mother died a little over 9 years ago. It’s unfortunate, because she was never able to benefit from the seeds she sowed. She was never able to quit those bullshit menial jobs. She never saw me graduate college or heard me gain admission into law school.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel when I pass the elderly janitor. Sometimes, I can barely look at him because I see the tragedy that is life. A grown man who shouldn’t be doing this type of work, relegated to cleaning already clean glass doors because this isn’t his country and perhaps he doesn’t have the language proficiency or the educational experience or the network to not do that damned job. I see my mother. Sometimes, I want to talk to him, to find out where he’s from, why he came to the U.S. and what his life experiences have taught him. Sometimes, I want to talk to my mother.

I can’t explain it.

It dawned on me slow yet strongly
The thought and longing – the hand of God is upon me.
Despite the wrongs that I spawn, seeds
That grow into scrawny long green weeds
The hand of God is upon me.
It moves me along like a rook or a pawn
Or a knight or a king, in dreams and in songs.
Despite the words and thoughts, and the emotions in which I’m lost
I take up my cross.
The hand of God is upon me.

-Nalej Bonz

Going through it right now. Sometimes I get the feeling that life is just slipping through my fingers. But I’m confident that things will get better – even if they have to get worse beforehand. I know that God has a plan for me.

Yea, that’s it. My “One” wristband broke. I had been wearing it for about a year straight – almost never taking it off. And I was playing with it today and it broke. I’m sad.

But I’ve got a strong feeling that it means something. That’s it’s symbolic of something I should be concerned about. I don’t know. But that feeling makes me even more sad.