A porous heavy brick is palmed in his hand.
A trowel loaded with mortar is grasped in the other.
He slathers the line on his emerging wall. The sound of mush and metal
against bright red brick is gritty.
The weight in his hand is
released. His hand is light and free. He turns to grab another.
The mason continues this physical tiring pattern. When the wall is
chest high he straightens resting his back. He sees dark ominous
skies on the other side of his creation. He is determined to finish.
Exhausted, muscles aching, he steps up his speed. Mortar and brick,
mortar and brick, eyes focused, mortar and brick, until the wall is complete.
He sits on an upside down bucket, to rest. He wipes his brow and
tilts his head toward heaven. The sky is blue.
The wall is slowly erecting one brick at a time. My chalk line is pulled and
I see a straight beautiful line. The weight I carry in my hands is tiring. Each day
I release a new brick. My back aches. My heart aches. My shoulders are worn
from the labor of my task. I stand upright and tall taking deep breaths and admire
my work. I see the sky ahead of me, blue and beckoning.
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