March meant making plastic crates. The workshop was sweltering, the fumes from melting plastic so thick I could barely keep my eyes open. Blisters bubbled up on my fingers, but I didn't dare stop.
May and June, back to the orchards picking fruit.
July onward, I ground glass into beads at the pearl factory. Fine dust coated my face, filled my lungs, left me coughing until my ribs ached.
When winter came, my hands swelled up like dough from the cold.
After my shift ended each night, I still had to go to the chicken farm to collect eggs. I wouldn't drag myself home until well past midnight.
During those years, I cried in the dark more nights than I could count. And every morning, I gritted my teeth, got up, and did it all over again.
Year after year, the only clothes on my back were hand-me-downs other people had thrown away.
But whenever my brother or sisters needed money, I never hesitated. Not once.
I spun like a top, around and around, year after year after year.
Finally, Sylvester got into college and married. Pat graduated too.
The weight on my shoulders eased, just a little.
By then, I was already thirty. A matchmaker set me up on a blind date.