Sylvia Plath’s Room

Sylvia Plath’s Room

Sylvia Plath’s Room

Last night an icy rain fell, and in the morning it got cold. I wake up at six fifteen thinking about the cleaning lady, who is supposed to come at eight. Wednesday is my day. According to the shiny paper schedule hanging in the front hall, at quarter to eight you’re supposed to open your door, thereby letting her know you’re ready to have your room cleaned up.