I was walking back to my desk around the middle of the day when I noticed, through the window looking out onto the path that leads to the back-gate of the school, a guy making a herculean effort to push a trolley laden with bulky black bags up the path that ascends to the gate. He was making his way, at times inch by inch, to the rubbish bins at the top. Most of the time his body was almost parallel to the ground as he pushed and I wondered if he would make it. He did, but it took quite a time. He wasn't one of our custodians, so I couldn't figure out exactly what he doing, or for whom he was doing it, but it was clear that this was tough work and I was hoping this was the only trolley he needed to deal with.
On this the anniversary of Dad's death, I'd been thinking earlier in the day of the heavy job he'd taken on at Rotunda in the last few years of his life, and watching the guy pushing the trolley those thoughts became sharper somehow, more aware of what physical exertion can cost us. I was made to wonder again what exactly had made Dad take on that job. After all, when I went to work in the factory only a year or so after he had to quit, my work, although involving some heavy lifting, wasn't anything like as punishing, and I was a healthy seventeen-year-old. Couldn't he have found a cushier number on one of the machines? I can only assume he ended up on the dirty roller for the extra money, and I don't think it paid all that much more than you got on an ordinary shift.
Another mystery I'll never solve about him. He's further away than ever. But closer in memory.
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