Concrete Work

The shovel wasn't mine

and it was heavier than I expected,

the blade worn smooth at the edges

from years of other people's work.

I stood in the basement

looking at the pile of debris,

the concrete rubble, the broken pieces

of something that used to be something else.

My landlord handed me the shovel

and walked upstairs

like he trusted me to know what to do.

I didn't.

But I started anyway.

Blade against concrete.

Blade against stone.

The scraping sound echoing in the basement

like I was the only one down here

trying to move a pile that didn't want to be moved.

By the third hour my hands were blistering.

The blister on my right palm

was filling with fluid

that I could feel pressing against my skin

every time I gripped the handle.

I kept going anyway.

What else was I going to do?

Tell him I was hurt?

Tell him I needed to stop?

Tell him this work was pointless

and I was tired

and my hands were ruined?

The pile got smaller.

The blister got worse.

The concrete kept scraping.

This is what it sounds like

when you do work no one will notice,

when you move things from one place to another

and it doesn't matter,

when you break your hands

on someone else's renovation project

because saying no was harder than saying yes.

By the time I was done

the basement was cleaner.

My hands were bleeding.

The shovel was still worn smooth.

I left it leaning against the wall

where I found it.

I wrapped my hands in paper towels

and went home

and no one ever asked me if I was okay.