I am reminded of a saying my mom would mumble to herself while cleaning the dusty windows of our old home, or folding laundry for the third time that day. "A man may work from dusk till to dawn, but a woman's work is never done". She would sigh and her eyes would be tired but have a hint of longing in them. It was as if she wanted more. Not more to do, because as she told me and my brother, there was always things to clean, bills to pay, meals to be made, grocery shopping to get done. But rather she hungered for connection and thirsted for recognition. My dad would come in the door right in time for dinner, his work papers stuffed in a brown leather briefcase and his face red from the cold. After saying hello, he would go to the couch, lay down, and within seconds be lost to a deep slumber. His job was appreciated. He worked all day calling out orders to roofers, making sure the job sites were cleaned up and his customers were well pleased. On his drive home he would call my mother and ask if she had made food, as if it were carved into her calendar every night. Both of them toiled, in different and discreet ways. Neither of them understood the other, they were like passing ships in the night, or perhaps like runners who sprinted around a circular track going nowhere.