A Brief Memoir of a Kitchen Tile

Trivial maybe, but it could have been my own

You can tell. Many years of laborious work have worn me out.

They’d warned me in our first meeting. Said they were looking for someone with dedication and resilience — someone who could do a job without exhibiting stress.

I was naive and inexperienced but keen to tackle any task. I took the offer without giving it too much thought. I rolled up my sleeves and went to work.

Way back, when I’d just started my job, I was young and bright, my facade as smooth as silk. More winning than any other girl, I believe. Well, I held a demanding, if not the most challenging of all positions. I was placed in the core of the lead row just above the kitchen stove. You know right there, where it gets steaming hot, and where all the frenetic business and greasy stuff is happening. I was so thrilled about the responsibilities I’d been trusted with that I blew any caution to the wind.

I can only think of one dependable friend in all these years. Rag, who came to see me. Not as often as I would have hoped for, but periodically and as best as he could. I don’t want to wail over it now. He’s long passed.

But the truth is, the harder he scrubbed on me, the worse I got. And how he smelled at times! I can’t remember how many times I was about to faint off the wall; call it a tile. I never mentioned it to him. It would have cramped my style. Wretched Rag had enough of his own problems.

So I carried on and focused on my duties. Oh, sure, they were pleased with my performance — no complaints or sick leaves and always on time. They never had to replace me. And I was inclined to deliver my absolute best for such pathetic chore.

That’s a long time ago. But now, decades later, I’m still around, in the very same spot. Of course, the years have qualified but, above all, consumed me. And sadly, I’ve never moved up.

Not surprising, I look like I’ve wasted a big chunk of my life on a tanning bed. Weathered, furrowed, cracked. I aged poorly, way too fast. Quietly destroyed by the trials and tribulations of the daily monotony.

I doubt I’d ever yell “here” again for a job in the front line. If I had to be fitted into such a team again, I’d definitely prefer a less exposed spot where I wouldn’t have to deal with all the sh** that’s going on.

No, I’d choose a spot higher up to have a chance to retain my dignity and grace a little longer. I heard whispers from other co-tilees that there was so much more to observe from further up while facing little to no stress. Maybe that’s why I turned yellowish so fast, even though I’ve never let anyone notice my gnawing envy.

Now that the old stove’s gone cold, my heydays are numbered. I sometimes grievously question myself what I could’ve done differently — instead of giving my absolute best to draw a blank at the very end.

There must be more opportunities for resilient and committed women like myself to explore and grow… without having to slave along the way I did.

Well … for now, I just wish for a generous soul to come by, pick me up, and provide me a snug roof over my head so that I can use the remaining time to hold it up high.

©Kerstin Krause 14 January 2021

Thank you for reading.

Author’s Note

“A Brief Memoir of a Kitchen Tile” is the result of a creative workshop among a group of writers of which I was part. While we enjoyed a few drinks in an old pub that used to be a kitchen, we were tasked to choose any one object in the room and turn it into a personalized story. In a way, writing the memoir reminded me of how close I was to getting trapped in life for reasons of false appreciation and recognition.

If you are interested to read my writings, you may read the following one published in The Masterpiece.