The writers

Sylvia watched in silence as they filled into her home. Strangers, coming in twos and threes, cooing hellos, waving arms, wandering in in boots, flip flops, and sneakers. Women of all ages, of all sizes, short and long-haired, short and short-haired, tall and bushy, heavy and muscly, injected her home with giggles, palm rubs, applause, and all the liveliness she’d long yearned for.

They sat around in a circle, clutching glasses of Scotch, sipping, cubed ice flipping within. Sharing tales of yonder, eyes wide in wonder, cosying by the fire as embers leapt into flames, the friends laughed through the night. Sylvia pined throughout.

With dawn rose the women, tired to the bones, yet souls refreshed. And they took their places, wielding metal boxes, tap tapping away before daylight, in peaceful concentration, as beads of condensation left windows for the sun. 

All the while, the women wrote. For they had money and finally a room of their own, just as Sylvia intended.

Image credit: Rowan Heuvel

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