All day long, the older women here spend their time organizing their hats.
They each have a different organizing pattern. One likes to do it by color, another by size. Yet another alphabetically by the name she has given each of them.
Aaron, the red turban she wears most, is always first.
My job here is to make sure that they each are doing something, that they are keeping busy and not falling into fates of age and oldness.
My suggestion, at first, was thought stupid and lazy. Until my boss saw how many hats each of them had. You ask yourself what is most important in life, and you’re always surprised by the answer. You take a few moments to count a few things and are surprised at how far numbers can go. You think to yourself, these women are so old and how the older you get the more that order really matters, as if it were something you can just rely on, something you can count on, like the end that you know is coming, you’re counting on it.
But no one ever knows the end of counting, of numbers. Who’s ever counted to the end?
