**Diary Entry 12th October**
Clearing out the shed today, tossing junk and old rubbish into a pile in the yard. Found a grubby little notebookprobably one of the kids from years ago. Flipped it open and read a line that stopped me cold: *»Was a man born just to dig at the earth, then die without even scratching his own grave?»*
Felt like Id been struck. Because thats me, isnt it? Worked my fingers to the bone since I was youngsame as Margaret. Endless chores: the garden, the fence, the gate. Then ploughing, planting, weeding. We even took on another plot once. Wasted our youth on it. The house and land turned us into slaves. Now were old, backs bent like hooks.
Never saw anything. Never went anywhere. Just dulled ourselves with work, hands stained like soil, eyes always down. Margaretwashing, cooking, bottling jams, pickling veg. Always fretting over the next meal. Like Gorky said, mans a slave to his belly. No time for books, no part in culturecan barely string two thoughts together anymore.
Ached inside, realising our lives had been wasted. Somewhere out there, theatres glow, palm trees sway, clever folk talk about grand things. But us? Peasants then, peasants now. Even the kids are treading the same path.
What have I known? Never wore a proper suit. Never been further than Cornwall, not even London. Flew once, took the train a handful of times. The rest? Yard, garden, chickens. Work till holiday, then work at home. Margaret always bustling.
Soon well die, «without even scratching our own graves.» Damn fine words.
Smoothed the dirty booklet with my hand. Couldnt bin itleft it on the hall table instead. Everyone ought to read it, see their own chains.
Evening came. Sat with Margaret in the dusk, no lamps lit. Told her my thoughtsabout slavery, digging dirt, wasted years. How well die having seen nothing but turnips. What was the point? Lifes given once, and we squandered ours.
She didnt answer. Got up, watered the plants, then fetched fresh sheets and made the bed. Finally turned to me. «Come to bed. Enough chatter.»
Neither slept. Heard her sighing. Then she faced me: «Not everyones a Darwin or a Shackleton. God kissed them for a purpose. The rest of us? He told us to take joy in work, in land. Raise children. Dig potatoes. No use staring at the great ones.»
Paused, then added: «Im no slave. Did what I wanted, what pleased me. No regrets.»
Got up, threw on my old jacket. Stepped outside. Stars hung gold in the sky. Lit a fag, sat on the step.
«Fifty years together, and I never knew how wise she was.»
Tending home, feeding family, keeping the house straightand not a slave. Because God kissed her for this: for the garden, the kids, for me. Because everything begins and ends at home. Whod have thought?
**Lesson:** The world measures greatness in miles and monuments, but the quietest lives can hold the deepest sense.
**End.**
