The old woman looks around, squinting at the fleeting ray of sunshine.
She hardly even notices the rubble anymore.
She calls it decor, not knowing if she’s using the word right.
There had never been time for formal education—just work.
Her family—and the country—had depended on her.
She logged all sorts of hours at the factory, double shifts and all.
But the real work was at home.
The four kids grew slowly, before they grew quickly.
How it all came together is anyone’s best guess.
Although a good guess is the friends, both hers and the kids’.
They came from all over—Italy, Croatia, the Deep South, and Puerto Rico.
They worked.
They played.
They grew up together.
And each and every one of them, they were proud.
The stuff they built went everywhere, especially where the soldiers were.
They weren’t the brains behind the operation.
They were the operation.
And what an operation it was.
If ever there was a spare second, they would make their way to the local theater.
The opera would roll through once a year, and the old woman never missed it.
She didn’t have time for the taverns, but she could hear the music anyway.
A couple of those guys hit it big, she had heard.
She always knew things would change. That’s the way of the world.
But the world had been kind to her, and she had been kind back.
So she didn’t wish away time.
Eventually, the kids became women and men, and they found their own way.
The factory had a few layoffs—and then a few more.
They said she and her friends asked for too much, that elsewhere workers were more thankful.
One day, she heard the word idle.
Now, through the hint of sunshine, she just sees the rubble.
She reads the news from the people who know more than her.
She knows she’s uneducated.
She knows she’s racist.
She knows, thanks to them, it’s her fault.
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