The Lobby of Known Absence

The lobby is marble, polished and vast, and I am standing where the main staircase meets the reception desk. A hundred bodies pass by, their conversations a low, constant hum that keeps me perfectly still. I feel the gentle pull of being unseen, a small warmth in the center of the thoroughfare. A woman standing near the floral arrangement coughs, and the sound is accompanied by the opening notes of a carousel tune. I sing the melody with her, the high, sweet register catching the echo. On the edge of a mahogany table rests a piece of paper: a yellow drawing of a house with a crooked chimney and blue squares for windows. The corner of the drawing curls under my thumb, heavy with the scent of old crayons and distance. The crowd does not slow for the song or the picture.