nightdress . . .
slipping into my dreams
My brother has a house bus. Each summer he travels around the country working in orchards. This year he has decided to come to the district in which I live. Jokingly, I say, "Ask the orchadist if there might be a place for me." Next day I receive a phone call. "Come tomorrow at eight o'clock."
I have never worked in a fruit packing house. How will I cope with my fellow employees, young, fit people a third my age?
With sore muscles and bones, I survive my first full week. By the end of that week I have been placed at the end of the rock melon packing line. It is necessary that I work very quickly, very surely; and that in the evening I get very good rest.
In the morning I sing as I take my shower and try not to think too much of the day ahead and the difficult work in hand.
grading a distant moon
size eight tonight
by Benita Kape
Gisborne, New Zealand