**Diary Entry**
I was clearing out the storage room today, tossing out rubbish and old junk. A hefty pile had formed in the yard when I spotted a grubby, thin notebookprobably left behind by the kids. I opened it and began reading. One line struck me: *»Was a man born just to dig the earth and die, without even having time to dig his own grave?»*
It hit me like a bolt. Thats exactly how Ive lived. What have I ever seen? Work, work, and more work since I was young. At home, its always been the sametending the garden, fixing the fence, mending the gate. Come spring, theres the soil to turn and the constant upkeep. My wife and I even took on another allotment. Weve wasted our youth on it.
The house and land turned us into slaves. Now, in our later years, weve both got slight humps from bending over for decades. Weve seen nothing. Nothing at all! Never travelled. Just dulled our minds with labour, hands stained like soil, eyes always fixed on the ground.
And my wifewashing, cooking, steaming, making jams and pickles, preserves and the like. Always fretting over putting food on the table. Gorky was right in *»Makár Chudrá»*mans a slave, worrying about his next meal all his life.
Weve never read a thing, never touched culture, cant string two thoughts together. My heart ached. It felt like my whole life had been wasted. Somewhere out there, there are theatres, palm trees, people talking about grand things, while my wife and I remained peasants, just as we started.
And the children followed the same path. The same fate awaits them.
What have I known? Never wore decent clothes. Never been further than Cornwall. Not even to London. Only ever been on a plane once. A few train trips here and there.
My life? The yard, the garden, the livestock, the chickens. Work till holiday. Holiday means more work at home. A wife always bustling about.
Then one day, youre gone*»without even having time to dig your own grave»*. What words!
I smoothed the dirty little book with my hand. Carried it inside, set it on the sideboard. Couldnt bring myself to throw it away. Everyone ought to read it, to think about their own slavery.
The day ended. My wife and I sat in the twilight, not bothering with the light. I told her my thoughtsabout slavery, about digging the earth, how our lives had slipped by for nothing. Soon well die, and what have we seen beyond vegetable patches? What was it all for? You only live once. And weve squandered it.
She said nothing. Got up, fetched water, and watered the flowers. Then she pulled out clean bedsheets, made the bed, and lay down. Turned to me and said, *»Come to bed. Enough chatter.»*
Neither of us slept. I could tell she was awakesighing. Then she turned to face me. *»Not everyone can be a Livingstone or a Columbus. God kissed them, gave them their purpose. The rest of us? He told us to find joy in our work, in the land. Raise children. Dig potatoes. Why gawk at the great ones?»*
After a pause, she added, *»Im no slave. I did what I wanted, what made me happy. Ive nothing to regret.»*
I got up, threw an old jumper over my shoulders, and stepped outside. The stars were gleaming gold. Lit a cigarette and sat on the step.
*»Would you believe, what a clever wife I have! Fifty years together, and I never knew.»*
She bustles about, feeds the family, keeps the house clean. And shes no slave! Because God kissed her for thisfor the home, the children, the husband, the family. Because everything begins and ends with family. The smoke curled into the night, blending with the cool air. I watched the embers fade, and for the first time, didnt see wastesaw warmth. The garden slept under moonlight, the fence Id mended standing true, the earth Id dug rich and waiting. I thought of our childrens hands, small once, now grown, fed by this soil. I crushed the cigarette under my boot, climbed back into bed, and took her hand in the dark. It was warm. We lay there, not speaking, and I realisedI was not a man who had missed his life. I had been living it all along.
