"Don't give up."
That's what my grandfather would always say, "Don't ya give up, lad. Don't ever give up. Better times are coming."
I remember one day we were out working the fields, harvesting corn for the Ruler's storehouses, hot sun beating down on our backs, the Foreman's whip lashing above our heads. I could hardly work that day. I'd just learned that my father, conscripted a year earlier, had died in one of the Ruler's many wars, cut down for a cause he didn't believe in. The Foreman didn't even give us a day off, just sent me and my grandfather -- who was my father's father -- out to the fields with everyone else.
My grandfather was nearly eighty at the time, by far the oldest serf most people had ever known, and the oldest man still able to work by more than two decades. I was young at the time, not yet into full manhood. His back was bent with age, but he held his head up while he worked, eyes gleaming. They had tears in them that day, but there was a fire glowing in their depths, a fire I'd never seen before. He never let the Foreman see his tears, and I don't think he meant for me to see either. Still, even with that display, I thought him close to heartless, certainly not hurting as I was. In hindsight, he was probably hurting even more. But through it all, he kept working, never giving in, never stopping, his gnarled fingers piling cob after cob of corn into the basket.
I longed to give in, to give up. The knowledge that I'd never see my father again burned in my heart, consuming me in grief. I wanted nothing at all, nothing except to forget my troubles, and if death freed me, then I would meet it gladly. There was no more point in living. I tried to quite several times, but my grandfather never let me. Each time he saw me stop working, and a second later he'd be leaning over me.
"No, lad," he'd say. "Today's not the day. Don't let 'em beat you, lad. Don't let 'em win."
He'd hold out his hand, waiting until
14-Jul-2011 10:49:06
- Last edited on
21-Jun-2013 10:29:03
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Chuk