Read Poem: A job begrudgingly finished, by Louise Wilding

I sit beneath the small porch, legs up on the low brick wall, back resting on the house, and I watch it rain.

It’s warm, humid, but not uncomfortable. Thunderclouds cause it to be unnaturally dark.

I’m happy. No, not happy. Content. Thunder soothes me. Petrichor calls me. I smile, sip my tea.

How long will I allow myself to rest this time? How long until voices from history convince me once more, that resting is laziness?

You’ve got clothes to wash, and fold, and put away, they say. You’ve got pots to wash, and dry, and put away, they insist.

Five more minutes, I tell them. But they’ve already ruined it. I was happy. Well, not really, but almost. I was rested. In the moment. Now I’m anxious. Fidgeting. In my head.

No longer able to sit, I drag myself to a task. Because if I do nothing, what kind of person am I? Selfish?

A slob? The words fill my mind. History rising once more, bringing shame with it.

I have no motivation.

I stare at my chores. Insurmountable. Unending. Pointless.

I trudge through the house. Discarded floor crumbs stick to the souls on my bare feet. I wipe them on my leggings.

I open the door to the cupboard under the stairs. The hoovers steel and corrugated plastic hose already in attack position jumps into my face. I haul it off shoes and fallen jackets. Dropping it quite un-delicately onto the floor. Time to hoover.

But I don’t move.

Just plug it in, the voices yell. Even you can do that.

So, I drag the cord to the closest socket and plug it in. The hoover starts automatically, and the shock of the noise in the silence of my house knocks years from my life. I gather myself. Turn off the hoover.

Breathe.

Interest in my task fading fast. I stare at the hoover. At the floor. At my far less attractive than I recall reflection.

Music.

Music will keep me going.

Ten minutes later, I’ve finally selected the perfect song. I do a little happy dance and kick the hoover into life.

The world becomes noise.

Idiot! Now I can’t hear my music. Suddenly irritated, I pause my song and bend to my work. Listening to my well-chosen (agonized over) song now my reward for a job begrudgingly finished.

The hoover is loud. My body itches at the sound. I grit my teeth. Suddenly too hot, I disassociate. Pushing the hose randomly from corner to corner until the souls of my feet no longer collect passengers.

I turn off the noise machine. My ears buzz.

Music. There was going to be music.

I play my song. It’s not the same. The moment passed. I sigh. The room still untidy, my mood still despondent.

I glance outside. It’s still raining. The door still open. Fresh air drifts through my body. I inhale green scent. I stare at the rain. Sit outside, it calls. The cool air beckoning my prickly hot skin. I want to sit. But I don’t. Shame of my shame. I must keep busy.

When I’m done, the house is calm once more. Sticky sweat clings to my clothing. You’d think I’d rest. Sit
under the porch and revel in the rain once more. Cool my boiling blood.

But shame has dug deep trenches in my skin. I can’t simply sit. I’d love to. I’d love to read a book, curled up in a corner. Quiet. Calm. But even if I did, I’d keep one eye on the door. If you were to walk in, I’d snap my book shut like it was not a welcome escape, rather a dirty secret. Simply a respite while awaiting my next task. You must never think I’m the kind of person who would just sit. Why do you think I’m the kind of person who just sits? In my own home. No. No, not me. I’m busy. I’m up and doing.

Only I’m not, not really. I want to rest. I want to allow myself peace. But I won’t. I’ll follow you awkwardly from room to room, desperate to be seen as useful. Helpful. Only to be found as a mild irritant. But anything is better than being seen as lazy.

I’m alone today. So, I can sit. Not relaxed, never relaxed. But sit I do.

I sit beneath the small porch, legs up on the low brick wall, back resting against the house. And I watch it rain.