Ali's hands are dirty. In dirt that he alone sees, which is resistant to washing, brushing, scrubbing and a dirt invisible but more tenacious than oil film drainage. His hands disgust Ali. He looks with suspicion, articulated appendages of flesh that fool everyone but not him. The drool running down his chin, mingled with scraps of food or bad drugs dissolved. Saliva dry of mouth, we must rub a little clean. Dentures soaked in disinfectant solution, it must be viewed in the mouths parted and wet, among the remains of snags black and irritated gums.
Clean bodies, skins unknown, the bulges, wrinkles, sweat and sour, the excoriations, cut nails, grate the skin from your feet.
Sometimes shit dripping dark veins and draws on the thighs. The urine soaks into the heavy layer thrown to the bottom of the bag. Skin abused by bedrest crack, blushed, hollow, necrosis, suppuration, to eliminate as many secretions, day after day.
ulcers flow and pierce dressings.
Styling oily hair, wash their skulls covered with yellowish crusts, clean the comb full of dandruff.
is the daily hands of Ali, even gloved, well washed and rewashed, keep a memorial layer of dirt all day. And Ali does not see it.
Who can he tell his disgust? He, the caregiver for old people and little old ladies who expect everything from him. Yes Everything! The old do not care physician and the medication that they know now, are only retardants suffering and death. But what happened to Ali, who comes to deliver a night stinking, heavier layer bonded to the buttocks. Ali makes the water flow warm, that mass, which changes, umbrella, which installs comfortably, which applies a cream light fragrance on the cheeks. Ali, who wipes the slurry dripping mouths awkward. Ali knows that even the ladies hair like duchesses, braids or curls ordered. Ali, who knows any body in distress and which comes every day to redo that old age has defeated in the night ...
Ali riveted his trade in the guts. It feels good. They like his old decrepit as old walls that do not want to end up standing. He knows the value of an indefinable smile, a sigh, a thank you.
Only his damn hands to taunt him remember the price, betray his thoughts maculent of dirt accumulated the least of his thoughts. His hands are both evil men who whisper to him the obvious: "you stop telling stories Ali stops all conceptualize, whether you like it or not, we are in a mess from morning to evening, this is our fate, that our grief, where do you see the pride and contentment? ".
Ali has dirty hands.
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