| Father always said Earth's bounty was a man's treasure and would point to Worth and Prosperity as though they were places on a map of the world - defining them by the sweat on his brow, and the callouses on his hands that to him symbolized success... One summer, after Father had surgery, he worked from a low-slung wagon, propelling it through the garden, inch by inch, with his walking cane... I thought his worn wagon much like a little ship sailing on a sea of dusty waves - his cane a floundering oar... Like a faithful sailor of fortune I worked the field by his side, hour after hour, beneath a red sun - pausing only to wipe grit and soil from my face with angry fingers, aching and stiff - newly-formed blisters rising and weeping in my palms... Until my last ounce of strength sailed beyond those dusty waves, beyond those burning hills, settling tiredly beside the waning sun - until the moon rose like a round, sweet apple - Father's face glistened damply with a sheen of sweat - his arms flailing in a wide arc - calloused hands moving between oar and sere soil... And there he stayed, among the sea-fields, sailing his little stalwart ship that rose and fell in the evening tide - carried solely by his own dream... I watched him searching every wave, striving for Worth, quietly rowing his way towards Prosperity... |
