On The Assembly Line

I'm working on cranking out a large project. I've been working all day and expect to work most of tonight too. To keep me going I've been listening to podcasts. I heard this poem I liked from a January Writer's Almanac. I'm so grateful I'm not a chicken sexer. Yuck. And I'm grateful for my hands which "root [my] life to so much work and possibility."

On the Assembly Line

by Virgil Suarez

Cousin Irene worked in the cold of a warehouse
basement in New Jersey, soldering the filaments
to GE lightbulbs. The job required steady hands,
without gloves, bare fingers for sensitivity,
and her hands cramped up eventually, after six 
hours or so, but the workday lasted ten or twelve,
in so much cold. This was her life for several 
years in America—back home, in Cuba, she'd been
a chicken sexer, a botanist caring for orchids,
a potato peeler, a cigar ring paster, a picker 
of papayas—all as a volunteer worker because she
wanted to leave the country. So in Trenton,
Union City, Elizabeth, at least she got paid
for the work she did with her hands, though her
choices continued to be blue-collar work, and she
thanked god for her hands, her reliable hands,
so necessary. She came to the United States
through the Peter Pan Project as a teenager
with the promise of a scholarship to an all-girl
boarding school in Kentucky, which never
materialized—she got as far as New Jersey.
Here, at night, she came home from the factory
and soaked her hands in warm soapy water.
She looked on as her fingers moved, these tendrils
of her once young hands—blessed these ten digits
that rooted her life to so much work and possibility.