My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

context

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast.

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine,

telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain

rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of

towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all

sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house

and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow

of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of

apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home.

An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out

of reality.

To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but

marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a

speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of

grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt

how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep

sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from

my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own

crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.