It is night time,
but the florescent light from the outside world
creeps in through the cracks,
illuminating the mattresses purring on the floor.
The sound of snoring fills the air,
like a symphony,
punctuated with notes of flatulence.
Haha. Farts.
I chuckle to myself.
The clock says it's five in the morning,
which means there's still an hour to go
before I start making the coffee,
refilling the tea,
handing out the breakfast packs we made the night before:
Twenty two little bags of two sandwiches each;
One with a slice of chicken, the other cheese.
Today, Ali asked for the vegetarian option,
John wants just the meat. No butter.
Seven o'clock:
I flip the switch, and the overhead lights flicker on.
The room shifts and moans awake.
One by one, they make their way to the freshly brewed coffee.
"Good morning."
"Not yet."
Some of us are not morning people.
Half past seven:
We do a round to gently wake up whoever was lucky enough
to have been left undisturbed by the lights.
There are thirty more minutes before they have to leave,
one hour before I can sleepily bike
through the empty streets of Amsterdam on a Saturday morning,
to the place I call "home",
where I will crawl into bed.
"15 more minutes."
There are still a few unclaimed sandwiches,
so now they are free for all who could use some extra.
I hand over the discarded loaf ends to the one who calls me "sister".
He seems grateful he can spend some time with the birds today.
"5 more minutes."
I collect the rogue glasses that didn't make it back to the bar,
throw the remaining drink and cigarette butts in the bin,
give them a rinse in the sink,
start the dishwasher.
Somebody opens the door,
and the cold air from another winter morning rushes in.
With everything they own on their backs,
the visitors step into the sunless, sometimes unforgiving day,
thanking us for our help,
as we close the door behind them,
wondering if they will be okay.
