A day for Arlene

“I am full of hate, and that, I know, is wicked.” -Page 7

“I cannot fly.
Pauline cannot fly.
In that, we are the same.
Like our mouths and eyes, like the jut of our chins.
Like the part in our hair.
Everything about us is the same.
Only not.” -Page 7 Arlene

Every morning I wake up I am reminded we are not the same, though we are twins. Mama wakes Pauline up for the mill, to go to work, to earn respect and money for our family. And I, staying home alone, take care of the household chores; my little jobs that are not near as appreciated as their honest work. I cannot even pay rent for myself. I long for the mill. And even more, I long to be able to walk normally, like my sister. A monster foot reminds me why I too can’t go to the mill.

Today is like every-other day but I always hope it and long for it to be different. First I make the beds with straight pillows and crisp sheets. I put on my chicken feed dress. After eating I wash dishes. And then the clothes, overalls last, hanging them out to dry. I must get some more ice cold water from the pump out front and gather up kindling for the fire. By the time I am done, my hands too are ice and the sun is starting its ascent in the sky but I cannot feel its rays in the cold of January. I hush the chickens with leftover grits from breakfast. I sweep the floors; looking for lint balls hiding under beds and tables.Then I start the dinner, making for my family, Mom and Dad and Josh and Pauline; perfect Pauline. I make backbone and rice, and an extra biscuit for Dad and Josh and I bring it to them at the mill; I am an unwanted stranger to my unthankful sister with her friends. They giggle at some joke, and I wish to tell them a joke I heard at the store but I think they laugh at something else when I limp toward them; my monster foot? One day, I will be somebody working at the mill, a respected somebody with friends like my sister, Katie and Margaret.

By the end of every day I ache for my bed I share with my sister, ending my day from house chores. I wait for Saturday, payday, a day that might, perhaps, hold some cheer.