A woman wakes from a fearful dream already in pain—spine stiff, ankles aching—and moves slowly through her morning. The detail of bloomers, girdles, and stockings as “objects that reshape her” hints at the daily work of becoming presentable, of constructing a self for the world. In the mirror she meets her own harsh judgment: her sorrows are called contemptible, but she refuses that verdict. Her answer, “So?”, is quietly defiant. She chooses not to go back to bed or call in sick. Instead she moves through a home that shows care despite poverty—patched fireplace, clean white walls—and dresses in the living room. The mood is not triumphant; it is weary but stubborn. Rain rattles outside, yet her pace quickens as she crosses from wood to tile to concrete. Gathering her bent umbrella and stained coat, she opens the door and walks out to the world.
Upon Slowly Waking, She — Summary
rouses from a dream of fear. Suppressing a moan, spine filled with fluids overnight, yes, again, and ankles still in pain. Across the flanks of her beloved she now crawls, stumbles round the room to find the handle of her life, or only the door, sliding her feet along. A floor creaks with dry rot as she steps among the objects that reshape her: bloomers, slips, half-slips, girdles, bras, tights, stockings.
She feels, Braille-fingered, for the small room where all who seek may find that men or women are only men or women; here they see themselves before any other's eyes, and by a harsh light. Her eye looks deeply through her from the glass; tells her that her sorrows are contemptible. So?
She does not plan to die today, no, nor call in sick, returning to the now cold sheets, seeking to resolve that awful dream. Call it what you will, habit if you like, but she carries herself into the living room, satisfactory sight, remodeled somehow, despite poverty: white walls and ceiling, cleanly textured, fireplace patched, mantel graced with oil lamps and seemly books: here she dresses. Outside, darkness, low clouds, and the rattling of busy downspouts.
She shrugs. Through kitchen to the cold mudroom, listening to the change in foot-fall of her heels, from wood to tile, to concrete, she moves on, pace quickening. No entropy now stops her. Gathering her bent umbrella and stained coat, she opens a door. She walks out to the world.