but she may not want or understand
the pity from the well-dressed business
people who walk past her without
speaking every day on all eight floors that
make up her responsibility, and hers alone.
They speculate that she is bored or not
especially educated and don't appreciate
the comfort she receives from simple tasks
done well, the rhythm of the mop, the
satisfaction that she gets from seeing
where she's been, the difference that she's made.
Putting food upon the table, raising children,
sending money to her parents back across
the border, she loves the gleam of chrome
and spotless porcelain, the mirrors that
reflect a grateful smile as she is at her work,
and she would be offended if she knew the people
she cleans up after 50 weeks out of the year
felt sorry for her. It's not like they would
want to trade their jobs with her,
and someone has to be the maid. She smiles
a little at the thought, and wonders if they
have someone at home who cares as much
for keeping things just so, as she does.
They might be shocked to see her pay stub,
at how little all that elbow grease is worth
to corporations now-a-days, but it's enough
for what she needs and some of what she
wants. She had no lofty aspirations when
she got the job; she lives for what she does
the rest of all the time she has upon the earth.
It's just a job; she does it well, her head is
always high, but she is not defined by anyone's
assessment as they step out of her way
and let her pass. The nicest ones have manners,
greet her in the hallways, maybe even
thank her, but she doesn't need their praise.
Her work does that. She makes up stories
about those she sees each day, and one day
she will write them down and win the
Pulitzer. Perhaps the people in the building
would be pleased to recognize themselves
in what she wrote, but maybe not. Very few
have ever recognized that she is there at all,
just another fixture in the building where they
go each morning to accomplish More Important Things.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014
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