The Scrubbing Floor Remembered Water

The hallway is marked by yellow tiles, the kind they used in the 1970s, and the air smells of iodine. I stand at the junction between the principal’s office and Room 304. My elbow brushes a metal cart; the steel feels cold, exactly 35 degrees Fahrenheit. The floor beneath my shoes gives a slight shudder, and the tiles ripple, reflecting deep, shifting blue. It remembers being water. I hold the fruit, a deep violet weight I cannot name, its skin slick and cool. I trace the pitting on its surface with a finger. A child’s alphabet abacus sits on the receiving desk, the wooden beads spaced where dates belong. I feel a quiet gravity toward the abacus, a deep pull toward the ivory beads. I press the heavy fruit against the smooth porcelain side of a nurse station. The weight anchors me to the spot.