All day, cabbages, cabbages, cabbages. All night, she lies there, wrapped in cabbages.

The next day, more cabbages. Weeding cabbages, watering cabbages, picking cabbages, packing cabbages.

Now. Where do the cabbages go?

She seems to have forgotten. This is cause for anxiety. The way to dispel anxiety is to do something, so back to the cabbages. More cabbages. Weeding, watering, picking, packing.

The dirt won't come out of her cuticles. She rubs them raw and goes to bed, and lies there, wrapped in cabbages, cabbages, cabbages.

They're piling up, but at least she's doing something. They're rotting in the corner of her kitchen, stagnating in a pile by her shed, but she's doing something.

She's full of aches and pains. She's a wire frame dipped in wax, but she has to finish the harvest. She repairs her work boots and heads out.

There was a time when she had different days. She sent the cabbages to market. She went dancing with her father. She swam in the river with her brothers.

But now there are just cabbages.

Cabbages, cabbages, cabbages.