Factory

We stack wafers the length of our armsin half-hour rotations, inspect the chocolate coats.You've eaten a Kit Kat before—at leastyou've seen them on newsstands next to gum,but this isn't about the finished product.This is about the factory, the chugging machinescutting candy into four fingers, standing on Line 11,watching the bars go on the conveyor belt,hours passing into tomorrows, and thenyou see your aunt through the plexiglassgoing on her lunch break. You are more alert now,because your aunt is a lifer, of course this is howshe helped you pay for college, your auntwith no children of her own, who wears her hairnetwhile eating her own food, who keeps her safetyhelmet on, takes a bath every night to scrub awaythe smell of peanut butter. Your aunt is a second mother,now you want to tell her how much you love her,that you heard a man on the phone tell herI love you, that you stood behind the door eavesdroppingwhile she said nothing back. You work overtimewith her cupping peanut butter cups, a job you didn't wantbut the work your aunt has always done, now givento you to save for the next part of your life.What is the next part of her life when it's your last dayand you hang up your rubber soles, turn in thesafety glasses? You've never worked in a factorybefore, you may never return thereor be a lifer like her, like your mother and father,your uncles and other aunts, not because you're smarteror better or luckier than most,because she doesn't want you there and made sure.