At Her Work

Sometimes, at her work, old memories assailed her: her charming, feckless father with only love to give his family, but that, unstinting, bountiful; her sisters complaining she was lazy - till her father told them to be quiet: poor was the house, he used to say, that could not afford one lady. She thought of how once, when she wore a new yellow dress, an old vendor on the corner whistled and told her she looked pomme de terre, "You mean, like a potato?" she asked. And he said, looking rebuffed and hurt, "I meant it as a compliment." And then in one disastrous season, three men who meant the most to her: father, brother, husband were gone, as now, all else was gone, all but her father's words. Still working, she heard voices through the door: "The light's on. Someone must be here." The door opened and another said, "It's only the cleaning woman." And with her oldest memory clear, "Oh, no," she amended silently, "It's the cleaning lady."

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK