Red Wringer/Blue Monday
She looked at her raw hands, rough and red from years of work. Not soft white skin delicately laid over fine bones. Not hands to fuss with carefully coiffed hair. Not hands to place inside fine kid leather gloves. Not hands to hold thin china tea cups. Not hands to pick at chocolates and thin sandwiches. Not hands to dance along piano keys. Not hands to be held at elegant balls. Not hands to wear gold rings.
Sighing, she again plunged her hands into the soup of the laundry bucket to extract another piece of clothing. She put the shirt through the wringer, carefully maneuvering the cloth while cranking the handle. If it touched the ground, it would be back into the soap bucket to begin the whole process again.
As she pegged it next to her apron on the clothes line, she thought of how her life was like hands and laundry.