**Diary Entry 12th October**
I was clearing out the storage shed today, tossing away junk and old clutter. A whole pile of it sat in the yard when I spotted a grubby little notebookprobably left behind by one of the children years ago. Curious, I flipped it open and read a line that struck me: *”Was a man born just to dig at the earth and then die, without even scratching out his own grave?”*
It hit me like a hammer. Thats exactly how Ive lived. What have I seen? Work, from morning till night, ever since I was young. The garden, the fence, the gate. Ploughing in spring, tending the soil. My wife and I even took on another plot, wasting our youth on it. The farm turned us into slaves. Now, in our old age, weve both got stooped backs from bending over for decades.
Weve seen nothing. Nothing at all. Never been anywhere. Our hands are rough as the earth weve worked, our eyes fixed on the ground. And my wifescrubbing, cooking, stewing, jams and pickles, endless jars. Always worrying about putting food on the table. Hardy was right in *Far from the Madding Crowd*mans a slave, fretting over his next meal all his life.
We never read, never touched culture. Couldnt string two thoughts together about anything beyond the farm. My heart ached. All this time, and what for? Somewhere, there are theatres, palm trees, clever folk talking about clever thingswhile my wife and I stayed peasants, no different from our parents. And our children? Walking the same path. Thats all theyll know.
What have I ever had? Never wore a proper suit in my life. Never been further than Cornwall. Never even set foot in London. Only been on a plane once, taken the train a handful of times. A life of sheds, soil, chickens, and livestock. Work till holiday, then work at home on holiday. A wife always bustling, never still.
*”Die without digging your own grave.”* What a line.
I smoothed the dirty little book with my hand, carried it inside, and left it on the sideboard. Couldnt bring myself to chuck it. Everyone ought to read itmaybe theyd see their own chains.
The day ended. We sat in the dim kitchen, no lamps lit. I told her my thoughtsabout slavery, about digging dirt, how our lives had slipped by for nothing. Soon wed be gone, and what had we known besides rows of vegetables? Why had we even bothered? You only get one life, and wed wasted ours.
She didnt answer. Just stood, fetched water, and watered the plants. Then she pulled fresh sheets from the cupboard, made the bed, and lay down. Finally, she turned and said, *”Come to bed. Enough talk.”*
Neither of us slept. I could tell she was awake too, sighing. Then she faced me and said, *”Not everyones meant to be an explorer or a poet. Some are touched for greatnessthe rest of us are meant to find joy in work, in raising children, in pulling potatoes from the earth. Whats the use pining after grand things?”*
After a pause, she added that she wasnt a slave. Shed done what she wanted, what made her happy. Had no regrets.
I got up, threw my old jumper over my shoulders, and stepped outside. The stars glittered gold above. I lit a cigarette and sat on the step.
*”My wifes clever, isnt she? Fifty years together, and I never knew.”*
She keeps the house, feeds us all, tends everything. And shes no slave. Because she was made for thisfor home, for family, for tending. Everything begins and ends there. Whod have thought it?
