The room was on the 14th floor.. or something like that. High up. Or rather, very high up. I opened the curtains and this was what I saw right opposite across the street. What the picture fails to capture is how high this was. I tried.. but if I were to capture height I would have missed out on the detail of the guy right there. White shirt. Hard hat. Working in the heat.
Who was he? In this day and age I doubt he was born on our shores, although I hope one day we will be kind enough to let him think of it as home. Not that he needs our permission. But we lack grace and kindness like that.
“This is my land..”
“I am the son of this soil..”
“If you dont agree with what I want then leave.”
I wondered what he did after hours. Did he go home to a family – be that family a wife and children, or likened brothers in arms, flung across the Straits looking for meaning.
Did he have a sweet lady on the side.. someone he sought comfort from when things got a bit much to bear.
Did he have someone he could talk to?
Did he seek solace in mosques or churches or temples, or did a vacuum exist that he filled with opiates of a more physical kind?
I need not have wondered. As the day darkened a solitary light remained jn that unfinished building block. I saw Mr. Hardhat man cover his body with a sheet of pelikat and slept under the stars, halfway up, halfway down, halfway in between.