The Brooklyn Rail
I think my friend’s eyes are tearing up. I know how she feels. I hold her hand. We are two women sitting in a coffee shop. Trying to lift one another’s spirits, and reminding each other of the pleasures of being. Sometimes we agree to make the rituals of life gleeful. Other times we want to start a revolution.
She once said to me, “What I am talking about is a new revolution in the labor movement…questioning the meaning of work͛ altogether.”
I wasn’t surprised, we often talk about this.