A man was clearing out his shed, tossing junk and old clutter into a heap in the yard. Among the rubbish, he spotted a thin, grimy bookprobably left by children. He opened it and began to read. One line struck him: *»A man is born just to dig the earth, then die without even scratching his own grave.»*
The words unravelled him. Wasnt that his life? What had he ever seen? Work, from youth till now. At home, it was always the garden, the fence, the gate. Spring meant ploughing, tending, labour. He and his wife had even claimed another patch of land, wasting their youth on it. The farm made slaves of them. Now, in their twilight years, small humps had formed on their backs.
Theyd seen nothing. *Nothing!* Never travelled. Their minds dulled by toil, hands earth-stained, eyes forever downcast. And his wife? Washing, cooking, stewing, jams and pickles, endless fretting over daily bread. Gorky was right in *Makár Chudrá*man is a slave, forever chained to survival.
Theyd read nothing, lived outside culture, barely stringing two thoughts together. His soul ached. Had it all been wasted? Somewhere, theatres thrived. Palm trees grew. Clever folk spoke of clever things. Yet he and his wife remained peasants, bound to the soil. Their children followed the same path.
What *had* he known? Never worn fine clothes. Never gone further than Cornwall. Not even London. Just once, a plane ride; a few train trips. His life? The yard, the garden, chickens, livestock. Work till holiday, then work at home. A wife forever bustling.
Soon hed die, *»without scratching his own grave.»* Perfect words.
He smoothed the filthy book, carried it inside, laid it on the side table. He couldnt throw it away. Everyone should read itshould ponder their chains.
Evening fell. He and his wife sat in twilight, the lamp unlit. He spoke of slavery, of digging earth, of a life squandered. Soon theyd die, having seen only vegetable patches. Why struggle? Life comes once, and theyd wasted theirs.
His wife said nothing. She rose, fetched water, tended the flowers. Then she pulled fresh linens from the drawer, made the bed, and lay down. Turning to him, she muttered, *»Come to bed. Enough chatter.»*
Neither slept. He felt her awake, sighing. Then she faced him. *»Not everyones a Livingstone or a Drake. God kissed them. Gave them their purpose. The rest of us? He told us to take joy in labour, in earth. To raise children. Dig potatoes. Why gaze at greatness?»*
After a silence, she added she was no slave. Shed done what she wished, what pleased her. No regrets.
He stood, threw on an old jumper, stepped outside. Stars glimmered gold. He lit a cigarette, sat on the step.
*»Fancy thatmy wifes a sage! Fifty years together, and I never knew.»*
She kept house, fed the family, scrubbed floors. And she wasnt enslaved. Because God had kissed her for thisfor home, children, husband, family. Because all begins and ends there. He sat in the quiet, the smoke curling into the cold air, and watched the constellations turn. The earth was dark and still beneath him, familiar, patient. For the first time, he didnt see chains in the soilonly roots. And in the silence, he heard not emptiness, but peace.
