Saw a friend of mine I haven’t
seen in ages. She’s been retired for two years.
What do you do all day, I asked
her.
My house has never been so clean,
she said, my drawers never so tidy. Every afternoon I sit down to eat my lunch
and cook dinner every night. The dishwasher is never full. My laundry is folded
and put away, my windows gleam, there is no soap scum on my shower walls. My cabinets
and closets are organized; my attic and basement are empty. I clip coupons and
food shop; we are never out of anything. I walk every afternoon and take naps. The
car is polished, the inside vacuumed. The dog is brushed; his bowl is washed
and dried each day. Saturdays and Sundays hold no special value and are viewed
as just another two days to endure.
But what do you do? I asked.
Nothing, she said, I do nothing.
What if I retired?
What if I didn’t write?
Would I go back to the music I
thought would bring me fame, or back to painting which I knew would not? How
would I spend the rest of my life...cleaning, clipping and folding my underwear
just so?
What would I do?
What would you do if you didn’t
write?


