Stories from My Father

It was a desperately hot day. The sun brutally beat down on the men’s already sweaty backs. You can see the thin material sticking to their sun burnt skin that looks orange now under the bright golden orb. Beads of sweat glisten on their arms as they raise their hoes to loosen the sandy soil.

A man takes a pause, puts his hands on his hips, and swallows hard to get a drink. He squeezes his eyes tightly, heaves a soft sigh, and looks up to the sky. Barely a cloud in sight. His eyes grow foggy and he squints. When is the rain coming?

That night, all the men gather in the common area to smoke and drink after a small, modest meal. They are farmers, afterall, who live by very little. They are used to it, and today’s hard labor was a good reminder. Their skin is still hot from spending so much time under the sun.

A young man unbuttons his shirt to get some fresh air on his skin. He still has some fat on him. He must be new around here. All the other men are dark-skinned, thin, and bony. Some even have white hairs speckled unevenly on their chin. Shirt unbuttoned, the young man takes a wooden stool and plops it next to a stone stoop. He takes a seat on the stoop, leans back, and takes a long drag from a crinkled cigarette. Grey smoke twists lazily from his lips. His eyes slowly drift close as he feels the tobacco sink into his system. Finally, he exhales.

Inside the stone cabin, the same old man from earlier sits on his wooden bed. It isn't much really. None of them have much in this forsaken place. Each bed has a thin yellow sheet to keep them company at night. If you hold it up to the kerosine lamp, you can see between the threads because it is so worn out.

The old man is tired, but nonetheless, he reaches from underneath his bed and pulls out a small tin box. You can barely make out the image on the box. It has faded through years of handling and moving about. The old man gently brushes the lid with his chapped calloused fingers. He holds it closer to his eyes, as if to see it clearer.

Taking off the lid, he pulls out a small black notebook. The corners are worn and the pages are yellow, but he holds it gingerly in his hands, and flips to the same page as he always does. There are two small photographs, both are in sepia and have a thin white border around them. Holding the photos close to his eyes, he squints and smiles. He wonders where they are now. They must have families of their own now. Ah! He has grandchildren! How old would they be? Boys or girls? How many? Oh it doesn’t matter, he would love them anyway.

He feels a sharp ache in his heart, and takes in a quick breath. He had to leave them so young. The boy was seven and his little girl was six. For their sake. He still remembers waving goodbye to them - his children and wife on their old farm. Everyone in the village came, but he only saw his children.

He raises his hand to touch his cheek, but his fingers are dry.

He sighs and slips the photos back inside the notebook. No use thinking about it now, that was years ago. How long ago was it? Oh it doesn’t matter. He shakes his head quickly and waves his hands to move the memories away, and returns the tin box back underneath the bed.

The next day feels cooler, but the soil is still as dry as the desert. Each dive into the Earth brings up large sandy chunks that are in desperate need of water, just like the men. How were they going to make it through together?

The old man from last night catches a wink of something between the dirt. Curious, he walks over and brushes the area. His eyes grow wide. A gold coin! He picks it up and peers at it incredulously. Could it be real? He looks down and moves his feet to see if there are any more. Ah! Another one!

On his hands and knees now, he eventually discovers ingots. He puts them all in his pocket and grows ever more elated. The money jingles merrily together as he moves quicker in his forage. The more he finds, the bigger he smiles, the younger he becomes.

I can finally return home, he thinks! Imagine the look on their faces. My children will still be there! He runs toward them, holding an ingot and flashing it in his hand. Look what I found! I finally made it! But they are not smiling. They are just standing there, arms frozen mid-wave, glaring angrily at him. It was a hot sunny day when they took that photo afterall.

He slows to a stop. The jingling halts. And his shoulders begin to slump.

Head hanging, he wonders, where are they now?