My idea of a lonesome day is when I do these chores alone, not a boy in sight to show me the fun of a Saturday morning. The others probably played vigorously, no idea of a life of mine. Would all of them doing the work cure this half of a heart, or just set it on fire again? Perhaps a lonely man is a sad man, and so all around him share the same characterizations. The sun is blazing, and my arm is suddenly tired. Not long ago I had started the fence, the horses’ splattered dirt askew at the bottom. Aunt Polly shows no patience. I dip the brush in the bucket of whitewash reluctantly, and stroke it across the topmost plank, then repeat the process with a few more.
This is no job. I should be out there, with the other kids, playing and goofing around. Instead I am here, doing the chores of someone else’s nature. Some boy would love to do what I hated to do. There are crazy people like that. Boys pass me, and I smirk. One familiar comes up to me, and I put on the charm. All of the boys succumb, and soon the whole fence is almost done. I am good. On top of free labor, I get extras of everything. This may be a life lesson to me in the future. I could use my newly- acquired tool to get real far in life.
I am like everyone else. I know the mind, and make the best out of it. I am of wisdom, of character, and of spirit. The heart grows whole again, and I go home. The next day I wake, and am required to do it again. My heart, with an ear-spliiting rip, breaks in half once more. So much for my day off. The tears center at my eyes, and I realize I will never be whole. Perhaps I’ll always be a little boy.
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