About the work

The wheel arrived yesterday, gleaming, still packed in its styrofoam cradle. They laid it out on the table, careful not to smudge its perfect surface. One of them, I think it was Ruth, pressed her thumb against the cool metal, leaving a print. She tried to buff it out, but it lingered. That was when the pigeon landed on the shelf, watching them. They worked through the afternoon, each movement precise, focused on the task, but the wheel seemed to demand a different kind of attention, an impossible cleanliness. Nobody mentioned it, but each woman knew what the wheel asked of them. And why it was impossible.