Painting Lady

I walked into the office kitchen and the cleaning woman sat at the long dining table as she usually does, ready to clean the used tea cups and glasses of the day. As I turn on the hot water kettle; I look over to her again. I want to talk to her but I don’t speak any language she understands. She is wearing a skirt, a sweater, a smock and eye glasses with her silver hair pulled back in a small ponytail. She is very little although she walks with good posture.

As I gaze over in her direction, I am surprised by what I see. I look down to open my tea bag and look over again. She is painting. Her little fingers are dipping the brush into the red and green paints and gliding the brush over a small canvas laid flat on the kitchen table. Everything is confused. Something about her activity is quite young, while her choice to paint seemed quite mature, independent. It was as if she was not the employee but the leisurely owner. Or perhaps she fits neither of those discrete categories. Perhaps she is the image of dignity at work.