Washing dishes, I plunge my hands into the water and thrash them around. I can't stand my reflection floating there in the greasy bubbles.
"It must be nice, not working," says some powersuited, coiffed woman.
'Oh, I work.'
My house is spotlessly clean. Crumbs don't exist in my home. Dust is the burden of others. My children are well mannered and cared for. I help with homework and my husband's pant creases are straight and sharp enough to slice. Every night I cook a delicious and healthy supper- I am opposed to boxed dinners. They're too convenient and I need to fill time.
I fold the clothes, edges line up, wrinkles are smoothed flat. I am surrounded by freshness. I put it away. I am not done. There's always more. Same with the dishes, the vacuuming, toilet scrubbing, life- I call it the Prometheus Effect.
There are breaks, like in the shower when I slide a soapy washcloth all over my grade A, aged flesh but I have to hurry- there's breakfast to make, clothes to iron, people to kiss and send out into their lives; or when I use the toilet, unless someone needs something from the bathroom. Then there's sleep if I am not having nightmares about my children being kidnapped or my husband running off with an interesting and tender woman with higher breasts, a tighter ass.
I smoke a cigarette. They want me to quit and ask me often. "We don't want you to die," they say. I can't even have that.
I go shopping for the children. I stop in the lingerie department. I need bras and look them over. They're all so stiff and new. I can't imagine them on me. I walk away with empty hands and a stomach full of resentment. How did I learn that I can't have new things?
We sit down to supper. Everyone had a good day. I am filled with relief, envy. My eyes listen with appropriate sparkle. I am actually sleeping.
(copyright 2007) c. A. Hughes
06.19.07
"It must be nice, not working," says some powersuited, coiffed woman.
'Oh, I work.'
My house is spotlessly clean. Crumbs don't exist in my home. Dust is the burden of others. My children are well mannered and cared for. I help with homework and my husband's pant creases are straight and sharp enough to slice. Every night I cook a delicious and healthy supper- I am opposed to boxed dinners. They're too convenient and I need to fill time.
I fold the clothes, edges line up, wrinkles are smoothed flat. I am surrounded by freshness. I put it away. I am not done. There's always more. Same with the dishes, the vacuuming, toilet scrubbing, life- I call it the Prometheus Effect.
There are breaks, like in the shower when I slide a soapy washcloth all over my grade A, aged flesh but I have to hurry- there's breakfast to make, clothes to iron, people to kiss and send out into their lives; or when I use the toilet, unless someone needs something from the bathroom. Then there's sleep if I am not having nightmares about my children being kidnapped or my husband running off with an interesting and tender woman with higher breasts, a tighter ass.
I smoke a cigarette. They want me to quit and ask me often. "We don't want you to die," they say. I can't even have that.
I go shopping for the children. I stop in the lingerie department. I need bras and look them over. They're all so stiff and new. I can't imagine them on me. I walk away with empty hands and a stomach full of resentment. How did I learn that I can't have new things?
We sit down to supper. Everyone had a good day. I am filled with relief, envy. My eyes listen with appropriate sparkle. I am actually sleeping.
(copyright 2007) c. A. Hughes
06.19.07
