Digging

“So what, you think you’re too good dig?”

My brother did not understand most of my choices in life, but had never disapproved of one so completely. He had adopted my father’s profession at young age and everyone expected me to follow suit. This was not the case. I often enjoyed helping my father in his work, but never wanted it for myself. Instead I am shamed by my awkwardness around spades. I can find solace only in my room, at my desk. With my pen nicking and slicing across the page much as my father, and his father before him, have done with their shovels. Plural nouns, adverbs, and adjectives fly through my head as my pen dives deeper and deeper into my thoughts to find at the bottom an unending new world of life, love, mystery, and madness. They do not understand my artistry with pen and paper much as I do not understand theirs with a shovel, but at least I can admire theirs. Aside from my brother, no one approaches me about my writing, but I know they all feel the same as he. I sit silently whenever my grandfather is brought up, I know he would not approve at all; no matter what my father says.

I dug for them, in the same way and for the same reasons my father dug for me. So that one day our family will not have to dig, aside from in our gardens. With hopes that as each generation goes by our family will get closer and closer to this goal of life without potato digging. My eldest shares my dream and will work in the same way I did for years. My youngest, however, has honored me in a much greater way; through the achievement of my greatest dreams. He will move on through life and make a name for himself, I am sure of it. In fact, everyone knows he is special, for he is smarter than all of us. His writing is a beautiful contrast to the dirty work our family has done and I know my father would be proud.