Write about: digging.
We had a quick but profitable pick this morning for the restaurant before sorting out our squash in the afternoon. I'll have to get some pictures of the haul tomorrow - it's quite impressive, if I may say so.
I watch Dad though the kitchen window as he works. The shovel in his hands is as worn and tired as his body, but still the pile of dirt grows steadily higher. Soon he will be knee-deep in to the earth and still be no closer to what he's really digging for.
But who am I to say that? Maybe he will be. Maybe this hole will accomplish what the five before it could not.
I could go out there and help him but that would defeat the purpose. At least I think it would. This assumes, of course, that I understand what's going on in my backyard. I would not be shocked to learn otherwise.
I pick up the phone, begin to dial Mom's number, then hang up. Instead I grab a couple of beers out of the fridge and head for the back door.
I leave my other shovel to collect dust in the garage.