Maid For The Ungrateful

She's thirty-three, single, her Mom babysits her five year old son. She reassures herself it's just two more hours, then it's the blessed weekend. Which means delicious sleep. She has no nest egg, she's just getting by. There is one kind aging matron who makes her lunch when she cleans her large stately home. Yet, other well-to-do homeowners cast their false superiority heavy in the air as she imagines wiping off their smug faces with Pledge. She hums to a catchy pop tune while scrubbing toilets and spraying down whirlpool bathtubs as her muscles ache, wishing she could soak in one. Maid for the ungrateful, she smiles remembering her First Holy Communion, her snow-white lacy veil, with her rosary of pearlescent ivory beads. Then, a memory of teenage politics of high school with random daydreams like impromptu snapshots. Her lips and throat dry from those wretched aerosol sprays, always forgetting her face mask. A few sips of tepid Gatorade, as she softly prays her son will excel in school. Her learning disabilities held her back despite her gift of intelligence. This day's cleaning was at the home of a lawyer's snooty wife, who was lunching with friends after klutzy attempts at tennis at the country club. Maid for the ungrateful, can hardly wait to get home to soak her worn feet with warm water and Epsom salt in a porcelain basin. ~