Thanks to Armando"s family, I have been allowed a private space to rest for the night before continuing on. In this front bedroom facing the one of the main roads through the city, a glorious past has been gradually reduced to a mishmash of repairs meant to only be temporary and spots where accidents have left their mark.
The white plaster walls are worn and scraped, revealing the cinder inside in some places, from previous furniture arrangements and the build up of dirt rubbing off of people"s bodies. The checkerboard floor of tan and chocolate colored tiles shows many cracks and a few tiles replaced with concrete patchwork. The ceiling is now a plastic sheet tacked in irregular intervals to keep the roof"s dust from entering. Exposed wires connect one switch panel to the television in the corner with the help of electrical tape. A sole incandescent bulb hangs from the ceiling uncovered.
Through the barred window, the street"s sounds flow in behind a vertically striped light red and pastel yellow silk curtain.
One old, faded painting hangs on the wall opposite the window portraying a toddler girl in a white linen dress from behind with her face pushed an interior wall"s corner, her hands on each wall to the side of her face, with a small dog sitting behind her leaning against her right leg looking backwards towards the viewer. A sense of care for the troubled young one is felt.
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