Dust

Another breezy morning.Polished floors like spotless nuns. We stand surface clean beside each other. Ribbons, shoes, bags define what is within. Nobody cares if you are not polished within .  Visibility matters more. She sees my new bag and says,"My dad always buys me new but then I hate carrying new" I nod in agreement. The second day she sees me gesture a goodbye kiss and tells me, "my dad loves to drop me to school but I like coming here by myself". I nod in agreement. She sees my polished shoes and says," I like them old and unpolished". I nod again. She tells me to read out loud and I read a poem to her from my book. She smiles at my pauses and then as I read the last lines out ,she bursts out weeping and says,"Did you know all the while I don't have a dad?" I nod and she looks at me with the most  human eyes I shall ever see for the rest of my life. Tears and yet they stall as she gives me one last look of hatred and walks away. I feel hurt and know she hurts too. I read the lines I read out to her,"I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do". 
A distant choir plays on.  
Years later I lose someone and realize why we make the non existent exist long after they cease to exist. I wear polished shoes sometimes, most times I carry the dust within.