Because my grandmother's hours br were apple cakes baking, br & dust motes gathering, br & linens yellowing br & seams and hems br inevitably unraveling br I almost never keep house br though really I like houses br & wish I had a clean one. br br Because my mother's minutes br were sucked into the roar br of the vacuum cleaner, br because she waltzed with the washer-dryer br & tore her hair waiting for repairmen br I send out my laundry, br & live in a dusty house, br though really I like clean houses br as well as anyone. br br I am woman enough br to love the kneading of bread br as much as the feel br of typewriter keys br under my fingers br springy, springy. br & the smell of clean laundry br & simmering soup br are almost as dear to me br as the smell of paper and ink. br br I wish there were not a choice; br I wish I could be two women. br I wish the days could be longer. br But they are short. br So I write while br the dust piles up. br br I sit at my typewriter br remembering my grandmother br & all my mothers, br & the minutes they lost br loving houses better than themselves br & the man I love cleans up the kitchen br grumbling only a little br because he knows br that after all these centuries br it is easier for him br than for me.