My mother was standing in the back yard wringing out the wash cloth which she used to clean the floors of an office building not far from where we lived. She worked there in the afternoons, while we were at school, to bring in a little extra money. Her hands were quite wet and red from the effort that she was putting in. She wanted her cloth to be dry. She wanted to do a good job.
I hadn’t seen her in the 3 years since she passed away. It was her first visit home. She looked at me and grinned a mammy’s grin.
“Go on? What have I been missing boy?”, knowing that I would only be too eager to give her all my news. I’m a chatterbox.
“There are thirty-two factory workers on a sit-in out in Ballyphehane, Mam…. for over a month now. They say that they are not moving until they get what they deserve.”
She gave the grey cloth one last, determined twist and a puddle formed on the ground. It was then that I noticed that her feet were bare. I was mesmerised by the image.
“Nice people I’d say too. Nice people are always the ones who do the struggling.”
She then became aware that I was still staring at her feet.
“Don’t worry. I don’t need things like that anymore.”
She smiled and walked up the garden path to hang the now bone-dry cloth on the washing line. I woke up. It was day 35.
We received this from a supporter by email this morning and we thought we would share it with you all.