**Diary Entry**
I was clearing out the shed today, tossing out rubbish and old junk. Piled it all up in the yard. Then I spotted a slim, grubby little bookprobably left behind by the grandkids. I opened it and started reading. One line stuck out: *”Was a man born just to dig the earth and die, without even scratching out his own grave?”*
It hit me like a bolt. That was me. What had I ever seen? Work, work, and more work since I was young. At home, it was always somethingthe garden, the fence, the gate. Then spring came, and it was back to ploughing, planting, tending. My wife and I even took on another plot once. Spent our best years buried in it.
The farm turned us into slaves. Now, in our old age, weve both got these little hunches from bending over so much.
Wed seen nothing. Nothing at all. Never went anywhere. Just dulled ourselves with work, hands stained like soil, eyes always fixed on the ground. And my wifewashing, cooking, stewing, jams and pickles, endless fretting over the next meal.
Gorky was right in *”Makar Chudra”*mans a slave. Always worrying about his bread. We never read a thing, never touched culture, could barely string two thoughts together.
My heart ached. Felt like my whole life had been wasted. Somewhere out there, theatres stood, palm trees grew, clever folk talked about clever thingsand here we were, peasants still, after all these years.
Even our kids trod the same path. Same fate waiting for them.
What had I ever known? Never wore decent clothes. Never went further than Cornwallnot even London. Only flew once in my life. Took the train a handful of times.
My world? The yard, the garden, the chickens. Work till holiday. Holiday just meant more work at home. My wife, forever bustling.
Then you drop dead, *”without even scratching out 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 bin it. Everyone ought to read itmaybe then theyd see their own chains.
The day ended. My wife and I sat in the twilight, no lights on. I told her my thoughtsabout slavery, about digging dirt, how wed wasted our lives. How wed be dead soon, and all wed known was rows of vegetables. What was it all for? You only get one life, and wed thrown ours away.
She didnt say a word. Just got up, fetched water for the flowers, then pulled out fresh sheets and made the bed. Finally, she turned to me and said, *”Come to bed. Enough chatter.”*
Neither of us slept. I could tell she was awake too, sighing. Then she faced me and said, *”Not everyones meant to be a Livingstone or a Shackleton. God kissed them, gave them their purpose. The rest of us? He told us to find joy in work, in the land. Raise children. Dig potatoes. No use staring at the great ones.”*
After a pause, she added that she wasnt a slave. She did what she wanted, what made her happy. No regrets.
I got up, threw on my old jacket, and stepped outside. Stars glittered gold above. Lit a cigarette and sat on the step.
*”Fancy thatmy wifes cleverer than I ever knew. Fifty years together, and I never saw it.”*
She keeps the house, feeds the family, holds it all together. And shes no slave. Because God kissed her for thisfor the home, the children, the husband, the family. Because everything begins and ends right here. Whod have thought?
