The Wife

The evenings were so hard. In the morning, her fifty-eight years lay lightly on her slender frame, but by afternoon, the long hours at the shirt factory began to hobble her and leave her bent over, already an old woman, when she had barely finished raising her children.

Then, dinner with Alfred and Jenny and the two girls seemed an easy time with little work to do but serve the beans from yesterday, make the cornbread and fry some meat, but, somehow, the children running around, Alfred quietly angry in front of the television, Jenny complaining about her boyfriend and how long it was until his parole, and she would begin to deflate like a lost balloon after the fair was over.

Jenny put the girls to bed and Alfred fell asleep in his chair with the TV still trying to sell him more medication than he already took. The noise did seem to relieve some tension as though all the words they couldn't say among themselves were laced into those barking advertisements and the yelling took away some of the pain. She washed the dishes expertly and rapidly as she had done her whole life. Her own mother would have beat her soundly if she had ever refused to do her chores, so like an old nag she kept going although her will was flagging. 

Later, sitting on the edge of the bed staring at her nakedness in the long mirror, she saw that she was still muscular and strong, even though gravity was pulling at her flesh and distorting it. It was hard to imagine the pleasure she and Alfred had once taken in each other. Now, he too was thin and worn, but they were both too tired to mind. She reached behind her for her nightgown and slipped it on, hoping to sleep well because she would be up at dawn to make the biscuits and gravy so they could all brave another day.

She bowed her head and prayed for forgiveness that her life had for a moment seemed too hard to keep on living.