The Humble Abode

English. "Write about a special place."

The ceiling is glowing, soft white and bathed in the gentle summer morning sunlight. The clinic is far smaller than I remember. It is completely different from the cold hospitals where my father works. I draw my attention to the people sitting around me. Even they are different, for they speak loudly, with more strength, dropping R’s and pushing their words to the front of their mouths. Solitary adults, young and middle aged, and grandmothers with entire families rest in the dark green chairs affixed to the creamy, speckled linoleum floors. Their gazes are hard as they stare at their hands or fix their sights on the dusty plastic plants that border the room. However, upon making eye contact as they look up occasionally to survey their surroundings, their expressions will soften, and their eyes will crease as they smile tenderly. A familiar voice disrupts my thoughts. “You know where my office is? Or Norwa should take you. Norwa, please-” I snap back to full consciousness. “S’cool, Ma. I got it.” How could I not know after over a decade of… there’s no accurate word to describe it. Certainly I didn’t spend time because I made the conscious decision to, but it’s not like I honestly minded.

I take her purse, which has become sad and droopy with age and constant use, and sling it over my shoulder. I bow my head and take small strides, making sure that each step consumes precisely one tile of the flooring. As I walk the path of right angles, I hear aged men and women call out to me. “Doctah Siddiqi’s daughta’! Ya gettin’ so biiiig! And rull prutty, too.” We exchange the familiar hello’s and how are you’s, the adults set forward in their chairs,eager yet relaxed, and the small children occupied by the single toy in the room. I move forward, passing the shining black “Ob/Gyn” sign with the bold, white lettering. I open the wooden door, and the receptionists, previously distracted by their phones bring their attention to me, greeting me perhaps like they would their own children. Again, we exchange greetings, and they ask me about school and future plans as adults often do. They giggle and smile when I tell them about becoming a doctor. “Just like y’motha’!”

I part from them, walking down the narrow, fluorescently lighted hallway, and taking the sharp turn to my mother’s office. I fish out the keys from the disaster that is my mother’s purse with my head pressed against the faux oak door of the office. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, listening to the silence of a morning at the clinic and taking in the faint scent of windex. As I open the door to the sunlit room, I smile. I’ve made it back again. I'm back in my old abode.