Sharecropper

Library of Congress

Staring at the scars on my hands, I see decades of work and toil. I see the damage, honor, and strain life can put on you. Life that wants nothing more than to earn your respect. My father was a man that earned respect quietly. He toiled in the heat and chemicals of a paper mill long before safety regulations were ever a thing. A place where a man with a union card could earn a living, support a family, and buy a home. Now I sit here on another man’s land living a life of servitude like a penniless sharecropper in the dust bowl.

But the grass just got cut, leaving the intoxicating scent of lawn clippings and sand gnats lying about. I pull my lawn chair towards the middle of the yard in hopes of avoiding the sand gnats in the shade. I notice the slight wilting of the leaves on the sycamore trees. They tell me cooler weather’s on the way. I’m putting my money on the belief that relief won’t come till the end of the year. So my bones are restless from this seemingly endless heat and chores of the coming months.

But I try to remain present, watching as the world moves at lighting speed. Knowing good and well the clocks a ticking. Hoping that enough 11:11’s come my way, this whole barely getting by thing is getting old, as the secondhand dial is wound tight. For there aren’t any good opinions for a man covered in scars with nothing to show for it. Still a cardinal flies overhead while a second one comes up behind. Are they trying to give me a special gift or inspire me just a little more. For riches and wealth are fleeting, but wisdom and clarity are passed to generations on.