During the weekday, it isnt hard to be here, bo worse than being at home despite the communal living. Work, and the necessities it requires in childcare routine, takes up most of our day. The day is passed with eating, working, eating and bedtime, with only a short time to contemplate the situation after my girl goes to sleep. By that point, I'm simply too tired to do much, which means too tired to think a lot either. The routine helps pass the time, helps tire my daughter, helps order the day in a way that's comforting and familiar.
The weekends are harder. There is no routine or structure other than scheduled meal times. The tempers here are shorter. Its here where the different life experience of women come out. Early in the morning you see moms, hunched over barely passable cups of coffee, trying to get children to eat, to settle. Battling the earlyness of the morning in tired pyjama. The children are of course already wound up, egging each other on. Playing instead of eating and already full of energy after a broken nights sleep. Slightly grumpy from the night interruptions as heavy door slam shut with the comings and goings of so many different lives.
Next up, not soon after the children is the older women - their children older, grown, but the early morning habit hard to break after so many years practice. They smile at the children, interacting with them as they too consume their early meal. They sympathize with the mothers, reminiscing of their time in the trenches. They encourage, congratulate, and offer up the wisdom of time, with an aura of pain. Voices laden with the fatigue of surviving for countless years, strength the iron rod in their spines.
Later stumble out a younger crowd, hurting from the excess of the previous night. In houscoats the huddle together on the couches, drifting in and out of sleep or consciousness. It can be hard to tell which. They pass the day recovering in time to go out again the next night. Perhaps their lives are easier to rebuild, their hearts quicker to heal with the vigor of youth. They seem as if they are on the prowl - discussing the attractiveness of someone seen the night before, the ease with which they travel from bar to bar scoring free drinks from patrons willing to open their wallets.
The walls here are thin, privacy minimal and silence simply doesnt exist. The despite our best efforts, my daughter finds it hard to sleep through the night in these settings. And her cries carry down the hall and upset the other group of women. Younger, this faction spend their weekend evenings on the prowl - traipsing the bar for fun and alcohol. My daughters cries upset their hangovers, as do the scream of other children. This is when words are short and patience needed more than ever.
The children don't understand why some women are vomiting when they finally get up. They worry someone is ill, hurt and those that faced the problems regular use of drugs or alcohol at home show signs of anxiety. The mothers do their best to soothe, comfort and distract, simmering quietly as harsh words are muttered between the factions.
Together we share a history - of abuse, of violence, of homelessness. Of a world that crumbled around us and needs rebuilding. During the weekday, that common factor is evident as people face responsibilities. The routine of appointments, employment and rebuilding unites the people here. On the weekends, the lack of regular structure serves to highlight the different ages and stages housed under this roof.
Comments
Post a Comment