Augusta Barnett: my mother moved with the times. By Arthur Miller

What you see from the ground is a pair of black and pointed booties, one of them moving nervously, and higher up the plum skirt that ascends from the ankles to the blouse, and higher still, the young and round face, and the changing tones of his voice as he chatters on the wall phone with one of his two sisters, activity that would continue for the rest of his life, until first one and then the other, spent the cable and disappeared in the sky. …