With a
flick of his wrist, the curved blade made short work of the dandelion stalk.
With his free hand Aubrey held the blossom upright. Quickly, he sheathed the
blade and lowered the stalk to the ground. Immediately he began stripping the
dandelion of the leaves which would be later used for teas and a variety of
medicinal uses. His calloused hands had long since lost their sensitivity to
the plant’s irritating outer skin. When he finished, he laid the prepared stalk
beside all the others waiting for the runners.
Aubrey
stood up, arching his back and stretching the weary, day-sore muscles. He wiped
his brow with the back of his hand and looked out over the field filled with
twenty to thirty fellow laborers. He watched them perform the near mechanical
motions of the harvest. He saw the inexperienced routines of the young and the
practiced patterns of the old. Looking deeper, he saw the boundless enthusiasm
of youth. He smiled remembering the energy and escapades of his own childhood.
He lingered in the mist of memory and saw the promise and potential in his young
life. Looking too, he saw the cynical resignation of the older gnomes whose
backs and bones were broken long ago by the rigors of life. He felt pity but he
also could not shake the sympathy which grew from his own struggles.
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