The Siesta

A short story in response to the painting The Siesta by Paul Gaugin.


The heat of the day brought is onto the porch and out of the sun. Keeping their proper distance, the men sat in the grass, smoking in the shade of the bunkhouse and winning nickles and buttons from each other in mindless wagers.

It took a long time to get comfortable with the proximity of my new 'sisters', A near lifetime together had brought with it a physical familiarity between them that was alien to me.

Alice would always be on the edge, one leg dangling down to swish the long grass that evaded the mower's reach. She'd sing softly to herself or, when asked, would share one of the stories her momma had taught her in the days before she died.

Constance seemed allergic to rest. Always anxious of the list of chores left to accomplish before lamp-lighting, she would ever have something with her to do - ironing, darning, trimming the lamps. Her industry made me nervous, but if I ever offered to assist, or tried to bring a chore of my own onto the porch, Natty would scold me.

"Child - you just let that be now." She would say, taking my basket out of my hand, "Never mind her fuss. You sit beside me here and take your rest.".

It was Natty who took siesta the most seriously. Sprawled out on a pillow she would talk and dream, even daring to gossip until Constance started tutting when, with a small giggle, would roll onto her back and ask Alice to sing.