Kathy H. has been working as a carer for 11 years and has been asked to continue for another 8 months, making it nearly 12 years total. She notes that some carers are asked to stop after only a few years while one carer continued for 14 years despite being ineffective, so she is not trying to boast about her own longevity in the role.

1. 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.

3. 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.

6. 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.

8. 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.

11. context

13. 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.

15. 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.

18. 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.

20. 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.

23. context

25. 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.

27. 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.

30. 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.

32. 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.

35. context

37. 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.

39. 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.

42. 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.

44. 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.

47. context

49. 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.

51. 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.

54. 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.

56. 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.

59. context

61. 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.

63. 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.

66. 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.

68. 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.

71. context

73. 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.

75. 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.

78. 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.

80. 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.

83. context

85. 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.

87. 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.

90. 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.

92. 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.

95. context

97. 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.

99. 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.

102. 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.

104. 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.

107. context

109. 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.

111. 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.

114. 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.

116. 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.

119. context

121. 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.

123. 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.

126. 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.

128. 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.

129. 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.

131. 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.

134. 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.

136. 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.

139. context

141. 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.

143. 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.

146. 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.

148. 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.

151. context

153. 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.

155. 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.

158. 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.

160. 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.

161. 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.

163. 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.

166. 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.

168. 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.

171. context

173. 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.

175. 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.

178. 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.

180. 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.

183. context

185. 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.

187. 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.

190. 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.

192. 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.

193. 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.

195. 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.

198. 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.

200. 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.

203. context

205. 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.

207. 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.

210. 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.

212. 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.

215. context

217. 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.

219. 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.

222. 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.

224. 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.