From her right to her left are three young men, descending in age, and in front of her is a man two years older than her. They sit out in the sun, letting their bodies complain for them, without their lips moving an inch.

But she hears all.

She hears in their breathing the words their hearts yearn to say.

The young man on her right, not above the age of 22 is the oldest of the three. He wants a way out. A way to get away from the life that he was promised--a life of 12 hour days for half the pay it takes to live a stable life. She hears his heart beating proudly as he dreams of the day he is out of the rut he was born into. He wants more; and he knows it's there because he can see it. But he's trying, trying with everything he has, to find a way to reach it.

To her left is the second oldest of the three boys. He is breathing calmly and, unlike the oldest, he's not looking for a way out. He, at age 18, has accepted the terms of his life and while he may not love every aspect of it, he knows his life is all he has and there's no use trying to escape it. He has looked, assessed the situation, and found that there is no more for him than what he has, and he's just going to deal with it.

To her far left is the youngest of the three young men. He is 16 years old and the most unhappy of the three. She can tell by his heavier, quicker, breathing that he is angry. Angry with the world for his conditions. He wants that which he sees other people have for himself. It's the Iago in him that screams silently from his chest that everyone else is happy and he isn't; mad that he has nothing and others do.

Then in front of her is a man. The elder of the group. At age 58, not much older than herself, his sounds are different. His breathing is steady, but slow and deep. He is tired. All his life he's known nothing but hard work. And that hard work has kept him alive and will keep doing so until the day he dies--from fatigue.

She hears all this without a word being spoken. What she sees is even more.

She sees the eyes of these four men are all the same color, but they all look different. She sees the oldest looking forward, deep into the distance, and the middle boy looking straight ahead at the house across the street, knowing the family over there is just like him. She sees the youngest boy looking down at the shoeless feet of his and the other boys, angry that the man has shoes. She sees the man looking to the left down the street he's walked every day to get to work for the past 36 years.

She sees all.

Then she looks and listens to herself--and she feels.

She feels the pains of all four males around her. She feels the joy of having brought these three boys into the world and calling them her sons. She feels joy in being behind the husband she has loved and supported for over 35 years. She feels joy at watching these four males being there with her. And she feels joy at her youngest and oldest sons leaning on the house she and her husband built from the ground up. She feels joy watching her middle son sit on the stoop of their house with his father.

But she feels sadness of the struggle that these men have had to face because she has had to face every one they have and feels all of their emotions, hopes, dreams, and fears all at once.

She feels all.

Yet she remains silent.

She is thinking, dreaming, hoping, praying, and cursing simultaneously and yet she silently stands tall, knowing that if she sits, leans, speaks, or falls, those around her will surely follow.