Will to survive
She stood, again, in the basilica; like a used dish towel, never a break, growing thinner, grimier, scrubbier, by the day. Always needed by the obese organist, never thanked, never appreciated. His helpmate; cellmate? Perhaps, but what else did either of them have? She had to take charge or face being forever confined to this place and to promises made. Sunday morning, she leaves her apartment, gets in her car, with her few belongings, hits the road of life and a future surely better than this toxic existence. Damn the cost; damn this life. Freedom, joy – at last, mine.
